


The Devil's Chord

by jdschmidtwriter



Series: Hooked On A Feeling [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Pre-Season/Series 03, hints of romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-02-26 12:31:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 97,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2652161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdschmidtwriter/pseuds/jdschmidtwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mysterious death. A life in the balance. When do the ends justify the means?</p><p>John Watson wants nothing more than to head home to 221B and have a hot cuppa, but Sherlock Holmes has other plans. The famous composer, Rebecca Frost, has died. Her elderly butler insists she was murdered. Sherlock takes on the case, only to face the additional complication of Vivian Walker - the unexpected heir to the Frost Estate. Someone wants Vivian dead, and it's up to Sherlock and John to protect her, whether the stubborn woman wants their help or not. But more than one danger threatens her life. Solving this mystery and keeping Vivian safe may prove their greatest challenge yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This novel is AU, as it was written prior to the release of Sherlock Series 3. Sherlock has returned following The Reichenbach Fall, and he and John have repaired their friendship. Happy reading!

Doctor John Watson was going to throttle his friend, Hippocratic Oath be damned.

It didn't matter that their cab driver would witness the crime. John could pay the man off by giving him Sherlock's stuff. A win-win.

"You solved a thirty-year old cold case during breakfast and the murder of a political activist before tea." John pinched the bridge of his nose. "And I'm not even counting the fake diamond you so kindly revealed to that poor woman."

Sherlock pocketed his mobile. "If he truly loved her, he would have purchased a genuine gemstone. Isn't that how it goes with you sentimental lot? I did her a favor."

John's lips thinned. "Haven't you done enough for one day?"

"Don't be an idiot." The world's only consulting detective and the biggest prat on the face of the planet thumped the barrier separating them from the cabbie. "Forget Baker Street. Take us to Stryder & Chapel."

Their driver made a u-turn. Apparently, they were now on their way to visit an expensive law firm.

"Aren't you at least going to tell me about the voice-mail?"

"No, I don't believe I will. You're clearly not interested."

Sunlight shone through the cab window and cast a halo around Sherlock's dark, curly hair. Oh the irony.

John glared. "You're being ridiculous."

Unswayed, his bloody-minded friend refused to speak for the remainder of the drive.

*******

"Do no harm," John muttered as he followed Sherlock into a conference room.

There were too many witnesses here anyhow. Far too many to pay off. Although, if anyone here knew Sherlock, they'd likely cheer John on as he punched him.

Rows of dark wooden chairs encircled a podium. A stout, spectacled middle-aged man with a ruddy complexion and expensive suit stood behind it, rifling through a large stack of documents.

A few people already seated glanced their way then returned to their quiet conversations. Sherlock chose a seat in the back and John, praying for patience, sat down beside him, the cushion surprisingly comfortable for such a posh looking chair. His face reflected back at him in the polished marble flooring.

"What are we doing here?"

Sherlock's gaze flicked from one attendee to the next. "I'm deciding whether we take this case or not."

"And what exactly is the case?"

"Murder, hopefully, or we wouldn't be here."

He frowned. "We've done missing person cases before." In fact, they'd rescued a kidnapped journalist a few months ago.

Sherlock drummed his fingers across the arm of the chair. "Yes, but only when desperate. Homicides are far more interesting."

"Right, because taking a case where you might actually save the victim instead of identifying their killer is boring."

"Precisely. Kidnappings are irritatingly predictable. It's always a family member or close friend committing the crime."

More people entered the room. A family of four chose the front row, while several groups of two's and three's took up the remaining seats.

A dark-haired man eased into the row in front of them and let out a sharp hissing breath as he sat. He cast a beseeching look at the woman beside him. "I promise you, this is it."

"I'll believe you once I've heard the will, Matthew." Her manicured nails glinted as she settled a designer bag across her lap.

Matthew shifted in his seat and massaged the threadbare elbow of his faded blue jumper. He twisted around and caught John's eye. "Have you got the score, mate?" A pained smile twisted his mouth. "I'd check myself, but my mobile's busted."

"That's a ruddy shame. I can check," John said, selecting the sports app on his phone. "Let's see, Saints just pulled ahead of the Tigers. Twenty-one to sixteen. Eight minutes left on the clock."

Matthew grimaced. "Do you think the Tigers have-"

The man behind the podium cleared his throat and an anticipatory hush fell across the crowd. Matthew faced forward.

"Ladies and gentleman, you are here today to bear witness to the last will and testament of-"

The conference room door opened. Everyone turned around to stare at the latecomer. A woman, tall, slender, and dressed in stark business attire, walked inside. Her high heels beat a sharp staccato against the marble.

She took the nearest seat available, which happened to be right next to Sherlock. John had never seen anyone with such perfect posture. It was as if a steel rod had been surgically attached to her spine.

The woman pushed a button on her mobile then looked up at the lawyer. "Sorry," she mouthed, adjusting the Bluetooth device on her ear.

The lawyer shuffled the paperwork on his podium. "As I was saying, you've been called here today to bear witness to the last will and testament of Ms. Rebecca Elinore Frost. My name is Edmund Hiddleston. I am the lawyer in charge of Ms. Frost's estate. Before we begin, I must verify attendance. When you hear your name, please respond."

He read off a list. Unsurprisingly, a number of people shared the Frost surname.

"Noelle Graves," the lawyer called.

"That would be my mother," answered the woman beside Sherlock.

Mr. Hiddleston gave an irritated sniff. "Substitutes are not allowed. The notice I sent out made it clear it was necessary for all listed to be here."

"I'm afraid that would be rather difficult, as she's dead."

"Dead?" The lawyer dropped his pen and gazed at her in consternation.

Flipping through the pile of paperwork, he muttered something uncomplimentary about a new secretary. He reached a page at the bottom of the stack and slid it out. "Your mother is Noelle Graves, born the 13th of March 1952, correct?"

"Yes. She married my father, Jamison Walker, in 1976."

"Why isn't your father here then?" Exasperation colored his tone.

"He and my mother were killed in a skiing accident when I was fourteen," she replied, her tone so matter of fact she could have been discussing the weather. Granted, it had to have been at least fifteen years since the accident. She appeared to be in her late twenties, possibly early thirties.

The lawyer eased his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. "Do you have any family members who are not dead? Aunts? Uncles? Siblings?"

She shook her head and a few strands of red hair came loose from a bun secured by a large metal clip. "I had an older brother, but he's passed on as well. I'm afraid you're stuck with me, Mr. Hiddleston."

The lawyer gave a small cough. "I see. It appears the information we have regarding your mother is sorely out of date. Did you bring the death certificates and your birth certificate?"

She nodded.

"My assistant will collect them when we've finished here." He paused, his pen poised for action. "I didn't get your name, Miss?"

"Walker. Vivian Walker."

Mr. Hiddleston nodded then continued on down the list.

A white-haired gentleman stared in their direction. John couldn't decide whether the impeccably dressed man was watching Sherlock or Miss Walker or perhaps the painting on the wall behind them. Although, if he had to bet on one of the three, he'd wager the old man's attention was absorbed by the woman. She fidgeted with her mobile, spinning it around in one palm in a practiced movement.

Sherlock eyed the phone, seemingly fascinated. It appeared perfectly normal from John's vantage point, but who knew what the mobile looked like through the eyes of Sherlock Holmes? For all he knew, his friend had deduced she made a living as a magician, preferred tea over coffee, and enjoyed long walks on the beach.

Mr. Hiddleston opened an official looking leather binder and several people leaned forward.

"Ms. Frost's will was written in letter format to recipients of her estate. Please wait until I have finished reading before voicing any concerns." He gave the group a stern look as if he expected someone to pipe up right then with some ridiculous query.

Satisfied, he continued. "To my composing critique group, you never failed to challenge me while at the same time supporting my efforts. I gladly leave my vacation home in Italy to be divided amongst the six of you. May it be a place where the creation of music continues to thrive. Legato, my friends."

A cheer went up from the right side of the room. The lawyer shook his head and resumed reading.

"To my faithful friend and butler, Henry Giles. Thank you for your many years of service, for helping me to manage my estate, and for ensuring I always left the manor looking my best. I trust you will ensure I look appropriate when I am finally laid to rest. The guest house at Aria is yours. I have set aside a large sum for you to retire comfortably, should you desire to do so, however, I am certain the heir to my estate will see the wisdom of keeping you on."

The elderly gentleman who had been watching Miss Walker gaped at the lawyer, then dabbed at his eyes with a spotless handkerchief.

"To my great niece, Beatrix Frost."

A girl in the front row gave a startled squeak.

"I've deposited considerable funds into a trust account for you. It should be enough to put you through school at Royal Academy. Don't let your parents try to push you into law school. I'm proud to know the love of the performing arts will continue on in the family. Knock 'em dead, Beatrix, and for God's sake don't take a stage name.

The properties in France, Kent, and Belfast will be sold. Monies earned will be distributed to a number of charities benefiting those in need and supporting the arts."

John smiled. He imagined he would have liked Rebecca Frost. She sounded kind and generous.

"To the rest of my family-" The lawyer paused. His gaze twitched to the crowd, then back to the letter. "You greedy sods. You will never see a penny from my estate. You only bothered to be in my presence as I grew old in the hope of currying favor. I only wish I could savor the look of shock on your face when you realize your efforts were in vain."

John sucked in a breath. A ripple of discontent spread across the crowd, angry murmurs filling the air. Sherlock looked away from Miss Walker's mobile. His eyes gleamed with renewed interest.

A vicious string of curse words spilled out of Matthew's mouth and his hands gripped the arms of the chair.

"I'm not finished," the lawyer said. The audience quieted, but the tension in the room remained taut like one of Sherlock's violin strings.

"Finally, I come to the lion-share of my estate. This includes Aria, royalties from my music, the flat in Bristol, and the rest of my investments. They are currently valued at twenty million pounds. I give this to my childhood friend, who is the reason why I became a composer in the first place. Thank you for encouraging me to live out my dream. I give you the Frost fortune to do with as you please. I name as my heir, Noelle Graves."

Miss Walker's mobile slipped out of her hand and bounced across the marble floor. The sound echoed in the sudden silence.

She lifted a hand to rub at her temple, mouth agape. "There must be some mistake."

The stout lawyer drew himself upright. "We do not make mistakes at Stryder & Chapel."

Matthew exploded out of his seat. His chair skittered sideways. "The will is wrong," he shouted. Fists clenched, he shoved past the chair to tower over Miss Walker.

"You bitch. Somehow you're behind this. You've tampered with the will. There's no way my sister would deny her own flesh and blood."

Concerned for her safety, John moved to stand, but Sherlock caught his eye and shook his head. Reluctant, he sat back, only faith in his friend's judgment preventing him from coming to the woman's aid.

Miss Walker held steady palms up. "I assure you Mr. Frost, I've done nothing of the sort."

"I don't believe you," Matthew said, now nose to nose with her.

"You should," Sherlock said, drawing the man's furious gaze.

"Shut your bloody gob. You don't know what you're talking about."

"Actually, I do." A cold smile cut across Sherlock's face. "I know your bookie will be displeased when he discovers you're unable to pay your debt, especially considering your latest rugby bet has failed. Judging by your discomfort while sitting in a decent chair, his men roughed you up a few nights ago. I wager the inheritance notice saved you from dismemberment in a dark alley. I also know your wife is going to leave you for another man, the fortune you promised her the only reason she's stayed with you. Shall I go on, or have I properly convinced you that I do, in fact, know what I'm talking about?"

Sherlock's icy words of contempt echoed across the conference room.

The man recoiled and turned to stare at his wife. A red flush crept across her cheekbones. Her chin lifted. She rose from her seat, designer bag in hand, and left the room without a backwards glance.

A muscle in Matthew's stubble-covered jaw spasmed. He glared down at Miss Walker. "This isn't over."

He shot a final scowl at Sherlock and Mr. Hiddleston, then stalked out of the room.

The slam of the door broke the spell over the crowd. Men and women surged forward to surround the lawyer, voices raised. Mr. Hiddleston slammed the leather binder against the podium. The bang startled the angry mob into silence.

"Ladies and gentleman. If you have a concern or wish to make an appeal, please queue in front of the podium." He cast a severe gaze across the room. "We will have order or I will have you removed."

Men and women jostled one another to be the first one in line. Security guards entered the room followed by a young woman in a blue business suit.

"Inheritors of Ms. Frost's estate will need to leave identification with my assistant, Matilda," Mr. Hiddleston said, nodding towards the brunette, who stood holding the door open. "She will meet with you in the lobby. I will then contact you within the next two business days to schedule a time for you to sign the appropriate documentation."

Miss Walker and those named in the will wisely left the room.

"Well, that wasn't boring," John murmured.

"Hmmm," came the distracted reply. Sherlock, leather gloves now removed, ran long fingers across a shiny, black mobile phone.

A phone that most definitely belonged to one Vivian Walker.

"Please tell me you aren't planning on keeping it," John said.

"Yes. I've decided to give up being a detective for a life of petty thievery." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I simply wanted to examine the device before returning it. Have you seen a model like this before?"

John took the offered device. The phone was sleek, lightweight for being the size of his palm, and incredibly thin. A few rows of oddly textured buttons void of identifying numbers or letters lay beneath a darkened screen. He couldn't manage to power on the phone despite pushing all the buttons. Conceding defeat, he handed the mobile back and shook his head.

"I've never seen anything like it," Sherlock said, looking as if he itched to take the device apart right then and there.

"Perhaps Miss Walker will be kind enough to tell you where she got it," John said. They headed out the double doors of the conference room.

The hallway opened out into a spacious lobby, the room dominated by a large walnut desk. Tasteful potted plants lined the walls. Miss Walker removed a manila envelope from a leather messenger bag and gave it to the young woman behind the desk. She then stepped to the side to allow the elderly butler to have his turn.

Miss Walker rifled through her bag and a look of complete panic crossed her face. Odd that she chose now to panic rather than when Matthew Frost had shouted at her. She hurried back towards the conference room.

"Miss Walker," Sherlock said.

She spun around so fast the leather bag bumped against her hip. It was a nicely curved hip, John noted, sadly hidden beneath loose-fitting black trousers.

Sherlock held up her mobile and her agitated expression relaxed.

She met them halfway across the lobby. John was tickled to discover that she and Sherlock were nearly the same height. In fact, she had him beat by half an inch due to the heels she wore. Sherlock's eyes dropped to her shoes for a brief second.

John grinned. He bet it disconcerted his friend to have someone above his eye level for once.

Sherlock handed over her phone and she smiled. "It appears I owe you my thanks for not only distracting Mr. Frost, but for returning my mobile as well."

"It's our pleasure," John said, cutting in before Sherlock could say something abrupt, disparaging, or rude.

He offered her his hand. "Doctor John Watson."

Her grip was firm, confident.

Sherlock took her hand next. "Sherlock Holmes."

The welcome in her green eyes faded. She dropped his hand and took a step back.

John frowned.

Sherlock cocked a brow. "You have quite an unusual phone."

Miss Walker's smile went brittle. "Yes, I do. I'm afraid I have an appointment to get to. Thank you again for your help today." She gave them a brisk nod and headed for the exit.

"Pleasure meeting you," John said.

She strode out the front door, heedless of the pouring rain.

Sherlock stared after her, pale blue eyes narrowed.

"So, not a fan then," John said.

Sherlock slid his leather gloves back on. "No, apparently not."

"You know, people usually wait until after they've met you before deciding they hate your guts."

"Perhaps my reputation precedes me," Sherlock said.

"Or maybe Vivian Walker has something to hide," John mused.

Sherlock snorted. "There's not a person on this planet who hasn't got something to hide."

John raised his eyebrows. "Even you?"

Sherlock smirked. "Me? I'm an open book."

"You're a ruddy liar."

A smile tugged at Sherlock's mouth.

Not exactly reassuring. What could Sherlock possibly have to hide?  
He swallowed. Perhaps it was best not to think about it. Sherlock liked to do odd experiments on body parts after all.

The old butler rushed over to them. "Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Holmes. I didn't think you'd be able to make it on such short notice."

Sherlock waved the thanks away. "Your voice-mail indicated the possibility of an interesting case."

"How can we help you, Mr. Giles?" John asked.

The elderly man leaned in close. "Rebecca Frost was murdered."

John blinked. "How can you be so sure?"

His shoulders sagged. "She told me."


	2. Chapter 2

John kept his expression open and polite. It was his doctor face, honed by years of working with patients who were crazy, senile, liars, or all three.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

Mr. Giles ran a shaking hand across his forehead. Bleak, blue eyes looked back at John, the lids red-rimmed, and beneath them, dark circles sank deep into his wrinkled skin. Exhaustion or emotion or both bleached the butler's complexion to clotted cream and John hastily stepped forward to catch his elbow as he swayed sideways.

Thankfully, Mr. Hiddleston's assistant noticed the old man's distress and kindly offered them access to an empty meeting room. A corner of the spacious office contained a full service tea cart, complete with an electric kettle and individually wrapped snacks. After making sure Mr. Giles was seated comfortably at the mahogany table, John plugged the kettle in and sorted through the wide selection of biscuits. Alas, there were no Jammie Dodgers to be found.

He handed the trembling butler a steaming cup of chamomile tea. Hopefully, it would take the edge off his anxiety. Tea always made John feel better. Over his five-year friendship with Sherlock, he'd consumed gallons worth of PG Tips. Investing in stock might be a good idea really.

"Take as much time as you need," John said with a smile.

The elderly man nodded, huddled over the steaming cuppa.

Sherlock stared out a wide window, hands shoved into the pockets of his long, black Belstaff coat. Water slid down the large pane partially obscuring the view of the city. The rain alternated between a soft patter and thunderous downpour, as if it couldn't seem to make up its mind.

John made tea for himself and Sherlock, taking care to add a generous amount of sugar for his friend. The man could use the calories. Settling for the ginger biscuits, John placed the tray onto the table where Mr. Giles sat sipping his tea.

Picking up a second packet of biscuits, John tossed them at the back of his friend's head. Sherlock's hand shot up and he snatched the missile out of the air a second before it could hit its mark. A wide smirk reflected clearly in the window.

"Nice catch." John shrugged off his disappointment. "You need to eat."

Sherlock turned around and stuffed the biscuits into his coat pocket. "I'm working. You know my rule."

Yes, John did know the rule. However, the rule was stupid and bound to get Sherlock hospitalized one day. Sure, a few medical articles indicated a possible link between improved cognitive focus and intermittent fasting, but Sherlock took it too far, like he did with most things. Honestly, it was like trying to herd a cat sometimes.

"At least drink your tea." He slid the cup across the table.

His friend rolled his eyes, but took a seat and accepted the tea without further argument.

Good. Their little exchange had succeeded in distracting Mr. Giles. His breathing had steadied and the color had returned to his face.

Sherlock leaned forward and smiled. "So. Tell me about the murder of Rebecca Frost."

The old man's brow furrowed. "Why are you smiling?"

John winced. "He's just pleased you're looking better than you were out in the lobby." He shot a warning glare at Sherlock, who made no effort at all to agree or even school his expression into something less gleeful. "Why don't you tell us what happened?"

The butler took a shaky breath. "Ms. Frost came down with bacterial pneumonia ten days ago. She was always a bit frail. When she was a child, an illness damaged her lungs making most physical activity impossible. It's why she turned to music. This particular virus hit her hard. Doctor Bingley, her primary physician, gave Ms. Frost an injection of antibiotics and over the next three days, she appeared to improve, her appetite and strength returning. Her breathing was still labored, especially at night, and supplementary oxygen was necessary while she slept."

He took a sip of tea. "Last Friday, I came into her room to see if she needed anything before I turned in for the night. Manuscript papers lay scattered across her comforter. She enjoyed working while in bed, but they weren't normally in such disarray. When I approached, she turned on her side and whispered, 'Someone is trying to kill me.' Her words were slurred. I thought she was half-asleep and experiencing some sort of night terror."

"Did she have a history of nightmares or sleeping problems?" John asked.

The old man stared into his tea cup as if an answer lay hidden somewhere in the dregs. "No, I'd never seen her like that before. I told her not to worry, that it was just a bad dream. She relaxed and nodded off. I left the door cracked. Whenever she was ill, I slept in the room across the hall from her in case she needed my help.

At 3 o'clock in the morning I woke to an odd beeping sound. Once I gathered my wits, I realized it was coming from her room. I hurried inside and found her in bed. She wasn't breathing. I called an ambulance, but by then it was too late."

His voice hitched. "She was already gone."

"Were there any signs of a struggle or disturbance in the room?" John asked. Often people jumped to strange conclusions at the sudden death of a loved one and Mr. Giles was clearly suffering from lack of sleep, not to mention emotional trauma.

"No, nothing like that. Her skin was still warm to the touch when I found her and the room was exactly as I had left it."

"Did you discover the source of the beeping?" Sherlock asked.

Mr. Giles shook his head. "I believe it stopped shortly after I arrived in Ms. Frost's room, but I'm not certain. I confess I was distracted by the arrival of the medics and the ensuing chaos."

Sherlock tilted his head to the side. "Aside from Ms. Frost saying someone was trying to kill her, what has you so convinced she was murdered? What aren't you telling me?"

Mr. Giles hesitated. "There were tears in her eyes, dripping down her face. So much so, the ink smeared on a piece of music she'd been in the middle of composing."

Sherlock stared up at the ceiling and sighed. "You'll have to do better than that."

The butler leaned forward. "Ms. Frost never cried a single tear in the twenty years I knew her. She thought crying was repulsive and a sign of weakness. Furthermore, she never would have allowed her composition to be damaged in such a manner. She took great pride in her work."

"What did the coroner say?" John asked.

Mr. Giles stiffened. "He said her medical history made it clear she died of respiratory failure caused by a sudden relapse of her pneumonia. I doubt he did a thorough examination."

John resisted the urge to shrug. Some viruses could go latent for a few days before coming back with a vengeance. Bacterial pneumonia in particular was known for its tendency to be resistant to certain antibiotics and often resulted in chronic infection. The second bout was often far more dangerous than the first.

"Why aren't you going to the police?" John asked.

"And risk the media finding out? They'd have a field day. No, this needs to be resolved quietly. I want Ms. Frost remembered for her life, not her death." His blue eyes glittered with unshed tears. "She wasn't just my employer for the last twenty years. Ms. Frost was my family and my dearest friend. Please tell me you'll find whoever hurt her."

John glanced at Sherlock. The man's face remained impassive. So, it was going to be up to him then. He always got stuck with this part. Trying to tell a distraught person there hadn't actually been a murder and that they needed to seek out a different kind of help was awkward at best. At least Sherlock hadn't called the client a moron and stormed out of the room.

He pasted on his doctor face once again. "Mr. Giles, we truly appreciate you contacting us." He paused, searching for the kindest words possible.

"And we'll be taking your case," Sherlock finished.

John goggled at him. Why on earth were they taking the case? It wasn't even a murder.

The butler's shoulders sagged. "I can't thank you enough, Mr. Holmes."

"I'll need to examine Ms. Frost's room."

"Of course." Mr. Giles pulled out a pocket planner from the inside of his coat and set the tip of his fountain pen against a page. "Would tomorrow at noon suffice?"

Sherlock failed to respond. He was far too busy staring out the window. A blot of blue ink blossomed across the paper. The butler stared at Sherlock for a moment before finally turning to John.

Well, Sherlock didn't have any social engagements which would interfere. If it weren't for murder cases and his refusal to cook, the man would never leave the flat. John checked his own calendar on his mobile. He had a date scheduled with Abigail tomorrow, but it wasn't until early evening. He couldn't imagine it taking very long for Sherlock to determine the case wasn't really a case. It was beyond him why Sherlock was bothering to waste his time on it in the first place. Perhaps Sherlock was deeply moved by the old man's sad story.

Right. And Mycroft was the Queen of England.

"Noon tomorrow should work just fine," John said.

The old man penned in the appointment, then pulled out a sheet of monogrammed stationary, and wrote something down on it. He passed the page to him and the parchment caught on the dry skin of John's hand, releasing a fragrance which smelled faintly of pine. Unbelievable. The stationary was scented. People actually spent money on this sort of thing. Of course, Sherlock had all his clothes personally tailored, so nothing should surprise him at this point. He glanced down at the paper. Mr. Giles had written the manor's address on it. It was located in West Sussex, roughly an hour away from their flat.

Sherlock stood, flicked up his coat collar, then strode out of the room. No wave or word of goodbye. He didn't even bother shutting the door behind him.

Mr. Giles gazed at John, his expression bewildered. "Was it something I said?"

John cleared his throat. "No, no. Sorry. He's just busy thinking now, working on the case as we speak."

God, that sounded lame.

A faint smile spread across the butler's face. "I can see similarities between Ms. Frost and Mr. Holmes. The brilliant ones are always a bit strange, aren't they? She had all the appliances in the house tuned to the key of A. That way, if the phone, microwave, or doorbell were to go off at the same time, the resulting sound remained harmonious. I grew rather fond of her quirks over the years."

Mr. Giles' smile faded away. "I truly appreciate you both taking on my case. I know you'll find whoever is responsible."

"We'll do our best to find out the truth of what happened."

John shook the old man's hand and then hurried from the room. His friend had been known to desert him.

The moment he stepped outside, the heavens burst open and buckets of water sheeted down. He was soaked in a matter of seconds. Wiping the rain out of his eyes, he spotted a cab across the street.

He ran across the road and opened the door. Lo and behold, there sat Sherlock, fiddling with his mobile. As soon as he slid inside, the cabbie took off, headed in the direction of Baker Street. It would be wonderful if they actually made it home this time. He shifted in his seat and his water-logged shoes squelched against the floor.

Sherlock glanced at him. "You know, if you'd left when I had, you would have avoided the downpour."

"If I'd left when you had, I would have very rudely abandoned an old man in an office." He shot an accusing glare at his friend. "He's already confused enough as it is. Why do you insist on encouraging him?"

Sherlock slipped his phone into his pocket and gave John his full attention, pale eyes assessing him. "You don't think it was murder."

"An elderly woman with chronic respiratory disease contracts bacterial pneumonia. There are no signs of a struggle or forced entry. Sounds like natural causes to me."

"Based on those facts alone, I would agree with you, but you're not seeing the whole picture."

"What am I missing then?"

"There were oddities in Mr. Giles' account of what happened. Her warning. The beeping noise. Her tears."

John threw his hands up in the air. "She could have had a bad dream. He could have had a bad dream. And, Sherlock, human bodies do odd things when they die. Tears aren't abnormal."

"Those are all very reasonable explanations for what Mr. Giles described, but they're not the only possible answers. There may be more to the story than meets the eye. Only first hand data can provide a final answer regarding her death, be it natural or not."

John sighed. "Fine, but you better not make me late for my date with Abigail."

"I wouldn't dream of it. You'd have a very upset woman on your hands, and your subsequent efforts to appease her would distract you from our case. Inefficient."

John shook his head. "I'd be the one upset. You haven't even met her. Abigail is laid back."

"I don't need to meet her, to know her. The photograph on your mobile tells me more than enough. Besides, this is your seventh date."

"What does it matter?"

Sherlock stared at him. "She's a thirty-seven year old pharmaceutical rep. Agnostic. Owns an orange tabby cat. Travels frequently for work. Responds to your text messages in under three minutes. Besides your early dinner reservation at The Wolesely, she's arranged for a classic film marathon at the Prince Charles Cinema for the two of you tomorrow evening."

"I told you about the last one. Do you have a point besides showing off?"

Sherlock sighed. "You won't be leaving the cinema until after midnight."

"So?"

"How can you possibly be so thick and still be alive? The cinema she chose is across the city from our flat. I expect it's only a few blocks from her place. She intends to invite you in for  _dinner_."

He blinked. Oh. A slow grin spread across his face. "So, I'll be enjoying two dinners then."

The first would involve actual food, while the other, well, wouldn't. Although Abigail did fancy chocolate.

"You'd better wear something other than your horrid jumpers. She has a wool allergy."

John studied his friend's stoic face. "You're just making stuff up now."

Sherlock shrugged. "You'll find out sooner or later."

They fell silent. The only noise came from the purr of the cab's engine and the pelting of the rain against the windscreen.

He cast a sideways glance at his friend. Sherlock had to be taking the piss out of him. Abigail would have told him by now if she was allergic to wool. He'd worn a jumper to every single one of their dates.

John's smile returned, wider than the first. Sherlock had a possible case to distract him, while he had an excellent evening to look forward to. Things were looking up.


	3. Chapter 3

The rainy October weather and subsequent traffic made the drive unpleasantly long. Sherlock’s legs twitched with impatience, as if ants crawled beneath his skin. A snore came from the other side of the cab where John lay slumped against the window, drooling.

It never ceased to amaze him how his friend could effortlessly doze off into peaceful slumber, like flipping a switch. Although, he shouldn’t really be surprised. John’s brain was a simple electrical circuit. The current traveled in a continuous loop until it was interrupted by some kind of need. Sleep. Food. Women. Sentiment. Flip the switch and watch Doctor John Watson light up or fade out.

No, Sherlock didn’t envy his friend’s enslavement. Unlike a simple circuit, his own brain was a microprocessor, a central processing unit with integrated circuits. Data flowed in through his senses, each byte processed for significance, the useful information placed in storage and the detritus set aside for deletion. In a sense, he was as much a slave as John, his own system embedded with the need to solve- everything. Not enough voltage and he’d shut down. Too much and he’d overheat. Such was the frailty of genius.

It was twelve on the dot when the cabbie stopped outside an immense iron gate on the sleepy side of West Sussex. Two pillars stood on either side of the entrance, the words ' _Aria Estate_ ' carved into the wet granite.

John stirred as the gate slid aside with a clang.

“Have a nice nap?” Sherlock asked.

John rubbed a hand across his face. A red splotch glowed on his cheek from where he had leaned against the glass. “If you hadn’t played the violin all bloody night, I wouldn’t have needed one.”

Sherlock shrugged. John couldn’t understand. Playing the violin helped relieve the pressure in his mind. It didn't work as well as cocaine, but the consequences were far less severe. Insomnia was a small price to pay compared to addiction.

Six years ago, he’d created a 7% solution of cocaine designed to limit the drug's negative effects, but dependency crept into his veins, corrupting his entire system. The change had been so gradual, he hadn't recognized the signs of his imprisonment until it was too late. The withdrawals had been hell, his body and mind consumed by fiery agony.

Sherlock sighed and his breath fogged up the window, exposing smudges from dozens of dirty fingerprints. He knew better than to think he was truly free. Addiction was a cruel mistress, her whispered offers of oblivion still a sweet temptation at times. Mycroft’s relentless pestering for him to find a flatmate had nearly driven him to fratricide, yet in hindsight, his brother’s logic made sense. Sherlock's self-control had been weak at best and John's arrival at 221B proved to be far more advantageous than expected. He’d been clean ever since.

His mouth curved as John stretched and gave a jaw-cracking yawn.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Sherlock’s smile faded and he shook his head. “I’m merely pleased you managed to get some rest. You obviously needed it.”

John’s eyes narrowed as if he didn’t quite believe his explanation. Fortunately, the man was overtaken by another yawn and he dropped the matter.

Sherlock shifted in his seat, smoothing out the wrinkles in his maroon shirt. Perhaps his faithful friend was more like a power supply monitor than a simple circuit. John ensured he maintained certain limits and never failed to take action when he stepped out of bounds. His friend was utterly predictable, but complex in his own right. John helped ground him, though he’d never admit it aloud.

The cab wound its way down a well-kept road. They passed five Victorian greenhouses, a lake, and a number of gardens before the house even came into view.

They pulled up in front of a large manor built of grey stone. Dark green ivy wound along its craggy walls. There were nine chimneys and judging by the window placements, exactly seventeen rooms, excluding the kitchen, dining area, and wine cellar.

Sherlock knocked on the cab barrier. “Someone will be out to pay you shortly.” He exited the car. John followed.

The estate was in excellent repair, the lush lawns well-manicured. Red valerian climbed freely across the paving and up the stairs to the main entrance. Dense plantings intermingled, spilling across borders which were intended as a guide and not a prison. Sherlock took a deep breath and the rich scent of woodsmoke, green plants, and damp earth filled his nose, so different from Baker Street. An hour from London, and yet it felt like a world away.

The arched wooden door opened as they walked up the short stone stairway. A red-haired teenage boy dressed in black attire ushered them inside.

The entrance hall was decorated in an old-world style, with Victorian touches here and there. Dark wood paneling contrasted with white crown molding, while a massive stone fireplace took center stage. The warmth from the crackling fire was welcome after the chill of the outside air.

A middle-aged woman approached and relieved them of their coats. She wore similar clothing to the youth, indicative of Giles’ preference for a professional uniform, unusual amongst wealthy households these days. It almost felt like he’d traveled back in time.

Mr. Giles walked into the room, footsteps silent against the thick ornate carpet. He wore a black suit, dark tie stark against a white pressed shirt. Not a single hair out of place. Unlike John, this man knew how to dress well.

“Thank you both for coming,” Mr. Giles said. He handed the young man a handful of notes and the lad slipped quietly out the front door. The cabbie would undoubtedly be pleased with such a generous tip. Giles gave them a moment to warm up. “Would you like tea before investigating Ms. Frost’s room?”

John’s eyes lit up at the offer, mouth opening to no doubt accept the invitation, but Sherlock beat him to it. “No. We’d prefer to get started immediately.”

Sherlock ignored John’s mutinous scowl and followed Henry down a long hallway. Reaching the west wing of the manor, Giles stopped in front of a set of double doors. He unlocked them using an old brass key and held the door open for them to enter.

“I’m afraid I have other duties to attend to,” he said. “If you need anything, pull the servant’s bell and someone will assist you.”

Sherlock nodded and he and John entered Rebecca Frost’s expansive rooms. The sitting room walls were paneled in the same dark wood as the entryway, while ivory sconces placed at regular intervals provided much needed light. A large bookcase contained texts on musical theory, the performing arts, and a handful of classics. Two peach colored wingback chairs and an oval coffee table sat facing a white marble fireplace.

Sherlock bent down to examine the coffee table. He ran a leather gloved hand across the smooth surface of the wood. His fingers cut a clear path through a fine layer of dust. “Good.”

John looked up from an unenthusiastic examination of the fireplace mantle. “What?”

“Dust.”

“And that makes you happy? Why? Planning on reporting the staff to Giles?” John asked, rubbing a hand across his stubble-covered jaw.

“No, I’m going to commend them.” He smirked at John’s look of confusion.

“Why?”

“Because Giles managed to keep everyone out of the rooms since Rebecca Frost died. Dust means our crime scene is in far better shape than I expected.”

“That’s perfectly splendid, but I still think we’re going to strike out on this one,” John grumbled. He did a double-take as he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror above the fireplace.

Sherlock’s lips curved. He had wondered how long it would take for him to notice.

John grimaced and ran a hand through his sandy brown hair, attempting to fix the bit that had flattened during his nap.

Sherlock met John’s brown eyes in the mirror. “Would you care to make a wager on it?”

His friend’s mouth thinned. “No, definitely not.” He headed towards Ms. Frost’s bedroom.

“Pity,” Sherlock said, following behind the army doctor, who was clearly smarter than he appeared.

Gold and cream colored bedding lay in disarray across a king-sized bed. Nightstands framed either side, while a white-cushioned headboard arched against the back wall between them. To the right, sheer white curtains hung closed across a floor to ceiling window. A few paintings decorated the remaining walls. A  _Renoir_ ,  _Monte Clair_ , and _Waterhouse_. All originals. Mycroft would have had an aneurysm over the mismatched collection.

Sherlock examined the left side of the bed. A few stains marred an otherwise spotless satin pillow case, likely due to salt residue, indicative of the tears Giles had mentioned. There was a rectangular shape faintly outlined upon the surface of the nightstand, the color considerably lighter than the dark wood’s natural shade. Sherlock removed his glove and lightly ran a finger over the markings. The wood was raised ever so slightly and minuscule bubbles brushed against his skin.

“We should get this carpet for our flat.” John rocked back and forth on his heels. “I bet it feels amazing on bare feet and I reckon I deserve something nice for putting up with you.”

“It wouldn’t be very practical,” Sherlock said, annoyed at the interruption.

“I suppose you're right. You'd just spill a chemical on it, or worse, light it on fire doing an experiment on carpet fibers.”

Sherlock merely nodded. Perhaps his friend would shut up and allow him to observe in peace.

John sat down on a plush love seat in the corner of the bedroom. “Wake me up when you find actual evidence of a murder.”

His friend’s mood hardly seemed improved by his lengthy nap in the cab. Perhaps the lack of tea also had something to do with it.

Sherlock looked over the bedroom a second time. Wrong. Something was wrong. He flipped on all the lights, but it was still too dark in the bedroom for his liking. Flinging open the curtains revealed an excellent view of the flower garden and although the sky was a grey mass of clouds, it still managed to provide additional light.

There! To the right of the bed, in front of the nightstand, were two round indentations in the carpet.

Sherlock crouched beside the imprints. One indentation sat more deeply than the other, but both were roughly the size of dinner plates.

He slid the nightstand away from the wall, revealing an electrical outlet. A small, round plastic device was the only item plugged in. An automatic timer.

Sherlock smiled. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to postpone your second nap.”

“I am?” John asked, rising from the chair.

“Yes, and you’re also going to have to pull the servant’s cord so we can speak with Mr. Giles.”

John walked over to the left side of the bed and tugged on the gold-tasseled cord hanging from the ceiling. A harmonious tone sounded followed by a woman’s voice. “How may I be of service?”

John jerked backwards. Sherlock grinned. A clever architect had hidden an intercom system within the walls, allowing the look of the old calling style to remain undisturbed. “Yes, we require Mr. Giles’ presence as soon as possible.”

There was a small pause. “I’m afraid Mr. Giles is currently taking a phone call. It may be a short while before he’s available. I’ll send him in as soon as he’s finished.”

Sherlock frowned. Surely the man who hired him could end a phone call to discuss a murder. Before he had a chance to articulate a particularly scathing reply, John piped up. “Would you mind terribly bringing us tea while we wait?”

The woman’s voice warmed. “Of course not. I’ll have a tray brought to you immediately.”

“We’re much obliged,” John said.

“It’s our pleasure,” she replied. A second tone sounded, signaling an end to the call.

John turned around. A triumphant smile spread across his tired face. How could someone possibly be so thrilled over tea? Judging by the man’s thrice daily indulgence off the stuff, it was clear Sherlock wasn’t the only one with a tendency towards addiction.

He sighed and rose from his crouched position. “We may as well wait in the sitting room.”

Before they even had a chance to settle into the peach wingback chairs, a bell sounded, coming from the outer door of Ms. Frost’s rooms. This tone was a slight variation on the first, but still in the same key. The double doors opened and two ladies wheeled in an intricately carved wooden tea cart. The sharp aroma of coffee teased his nose. Perhaps this wasn’t such a bad idea after all. The women left as quietly as they had come. John was so enraptured with his tea he barely managed to mumble out a thank you before they disappeared.

His friend lifted a covered plate to reveal a number of finger foods. There were cucumber with mint, smoked salmon on pumpernickel, and water-cress egg salad sandwiches. Raspberry scones with clotted cream and jam rounded out the spread.

John placed three sandwiches on a plate and set it on the coffee table in front of Sherlock, then happily filled a plate for himself.

The scent of the herb infused butter made Sherlock’s stomach growl and he scowled at his body’s betrayal. He slid the plate back over to John. Now was not the time to be eating.

John frowned over his tea cup, but allowed Sherlock to drink his coffee in peace. He consumed Sherlock’s plate of food and a second cup of tea before finally settling back in his chair with a sigh. The change in his friend’s countenance was remarkable, his good humor restored by mere food and drink. If only it were that simple for him.

“Tell me what you’ve discovered so far,” John said, brown eyes bright.

“I’d prefer not to explain myself twice.”

John grumbled into his tea cup. The bell sounded again and Mr. Giles walked into the room.

“Old habits,” the butler said. As he looked around the room, his shoulders slumped, ruining the fine line of his clothing. With a shake of his head, he straightened his posture. “Mirabelle said you wanted to see me?”

“Yes. I have answers for you.” Sherlock set his coffee cup down on the table and walked into Ms. Frost’s room. The other two men trailed behind him.

He turned to face Mr. Giles. “Before I begin, I have one question for you. A simple yes or no is all I require.”

The butler’s salt and pepper eyebrows rose.

“Recall the beeping noise you heard the night of Ms. Frost’s death. Was it tuned to the key of A like the rest of the manor?”

The old man’s eyes widened. “No, it wasn’t. The sound was completely unfamiliar.”

Sherlock repressed a sigh. Was it really so difficult for people to follow instructions? He gave the older man a false smile. “I’ll just go ahead and tell you what occurred.”

He waved a hand at the exposed outlet. “The automatic timer plugged into the wall is set to provide power from 9pm until 4am.”

Sherlock moved over to the nightstand on the left side of the bed. “The markings on the wood here are due to a combination of heat and moisture.”

Mr. Giles opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock held up his hand. “I’m not finished. You only think you know what was in this room.”

He spun around to face the bed and pointed at the two round marks on the carpet. “There were two tanks there. One contained oxygen, the other did not.”

The butler made a sound in protest, but Sherlock interrupted him. “Don’t bother disagreeing with me. You’d be wrong.”

The old man shut his mouth. Ah. Silence at last.

“A heated vaporizer sat on this nightstand, its purpose to provide oxygen rich humidity into the air. It was hooked up to one of the tanks, with the automatic timer providing power to the machine during its allocated time. The beeping noise you heard was an alarm indicating the humidifier was out of water. The lack of water caused the machine to overheat. The tank it was hooked up to was not filled with oxygen, as its indentation in the carpet is considerably deeper.”

Lines of strain appeared on Giles’ face. “But both of the tanks were the same. A medical supply company delivered the oxygen tank and the vaporizer to the manor the day after Ms. Frost fell ill.”

“And I expect the very next day, someone in a uniform came to the door with a secondary tank, insisting the first one only be used as a backup or some such nonsense.”

“Yes, they did,” Mr. Giles finally whispered.

John shifted from one foot to the other. “So, what was in the heavier tank?”

“I need more data, though I’m certain it was nothing good,” he replied.

"What’s the next step?” Mr. Giles asked, his face pale.

Sherlock smiled. “I’ll need to examine Ms. Frost’s body.”

The butler pulled out a brass pocket, then shook his head. “I’m afraid that will be rather difficult as her funeral is in a little over an hour. The rest of the staff and I will be leaving shortly for the service. She's to be buried.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Open casket or closed?”

The old man blinked. “Closed.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock said and rubbed his hands together.

The other two men stared back at him with vacant expressions. What was going on in their funny little minds?

Probably nothing at all. He spun around and headed for the door. 

Glancing over his shoulder, Sherlock noticed John and Mr. Giles lingering in the bedroom. He frowned. “Let’s go. We haven’t got a moment to lose, unless you don’t mind being late for your date?” 

John hurried to catch up. Switches, indeed. Sherlock needed only to mention the date and his friend moved with the greatest alacrity. And yet, he found himself more amused than irritated by his friend’s dependencies.

Sherlock’s mouth curved into a wide smile. After all, the game was on.


	4. Chapter 4

John jumped as Sherlock slammed his palm down on the worn leather seat between them. “This is ridiculous.”

It should have taken half an hour to get to St. Swithin’s Church. They had left ahead of the staff, allowing more than enough time for the drive. Neither of them had expected a school bus to spin out on the wet road and block their way. John checked his watch. The memorial service had already begun and Sherlock grew more agitated with every passing minute. The window of opportunity to examine Rebecca Frost’s body was rapidly closing.

Sherlock leaned forward and pounded on the barrier separating them from the cabbie. “Get us there in the next ten minutes and I’ll pay you an extra seventy-five pounds.”

The man’s eyes narrowed and the toothpick rolling between his lips went still. “One hundred.”

“Fine, but only the standard fare if we’re over by even a second.” Sherlock pushed a few buttons on his mobile, then held it up so the cabbie could see the timer on the screen. He pushed the start button. “Now, drive.”

The other man smiled and the toothpick slotted neatly between a gap in his teeth. “You gents better hold on.”

John barely had a chance to brace himself before the cab flew into reverse, tires squealing across the wet asphalt. They sped backwards on the shoulder, passing a long line of cars whose horns began to sound. The wiper blades swept across the windscreen in a mad rhythm, revealing the gaping faces of frightened pedestrians.

“This is illegal,” John cried. His stomach churned as they bounced up the side of a curb and back down.

The cabbie snorted. “Only if you get caught, mate.”

John’s head smacked against the window as they made an abrupt turn into an alley which was never meant to accommodate a vehicle. Their driver didn’t seem to mind, merely whistling a jaunty tune as the side mirrors scraped against the brick walls. Shooting out of the alley, the car spun 180 degrees, the view outside a dizzying blur of watery grey. With a deft spin of the steering wheel, the cabbie straightened the car out and accelerated down the road.

John rubbed at his aching head. At least they were now driving in the proper direction. He’d begun to regret eating quite so many finger sandwiches. Glancing over at his friend, he was annoyed to find Sherlock completely unperturbed, gaze intent on the timer’s count down.

“You have five minutes,” Sherlock said.

Their driver chuckled. “I’ll have you there in three.”

They sped down a number of side roads, across a bridge, and bumped over a divider before lurching to a halt in front of St. Swithin’s church. The parking lot was full. Apparently, everyone else had taken a different route.

Sherlock held up his mobile so both John and the driver could see the remaining time: 2:07.

The man grinned as Sherlock placed a thick wad of notes into his open palm. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

St. Swithin’s ornate spire stretched towards the heavens. Arched Norman windows and weather-worn slate walls gave the building an ancient feel. John caught the heavy wooden door of the church before it slammed in his face, his friend far too intent on getting inside to bother holding it open.

Noise from the outside traffic cut off as the door shut behind them. The silence of the place felt thick and constrictive, their footsteps swallowed up by dense maroon carpet. The stained glass windows, cathedral ceiling, and sweet scent of incense lent a feeling of solemnity to the whole place. Sherlock approached the service desk and a sober-faced woman looked up.

"We’re here for Rebecca Frost," Sherlock said.

The blonde-haired woman frowned. “I’m afraid her service is almost over. You’ll need to slip in the side door so as not to disturb anyone." She pointed down the hall. "Third door on your right."

Sherlock took off down the hall, his lengthy stride eating up the distance. John caught up with him. "What are we supposed to do now?"

His friend shot him an annoyed look. "We find a way to examine her body."

He and Sherlock quietly slipped through the side door and into the nave. The room was lit by candles and what light managed to filter through the stained glass windows. The wooden pews were jam-packed with people. A soft instrumental song played in the background and white floral arrangements decorated the aisles and front of the church. A priest dressed in black stood on a raised platform in front of a casket. Dark red curtains hung directly behind, leaving the back half of the stage hidden from view.

"Rebecca Frost will be dearly missed. She was a true artist," the priest said, his deep voice amplified by the acoustics of the high ceiling.

Sherlock headed towards the stage, and John followed closely behind. His shoulder brushed against the stone wall as he tried to remain hidden in the shadows.

He poked Sherlock in the ribs and his friend looked back with a scowl. "Miss Walker," John whispered, gesturing towards the front row. She was seated next to Giles and a number of staff from the manor. Sherlock gave a curt nod.

The loud tones of an organ replaced the instrumental music. Everyone in the audience stood and began to file down the aisle towards the exit. The resulting distraction allowed them to climb a side stairway and onto the back stage.

"The staff will kick us out," John said.

Sherlock caught John’s arm and dragged him further back into the shadows. His friend stared intently at two men dressed in dark suits. The younger of the two held a clipboard. The other man reached into his front pocket and retrieved a handkerchief. A neon green tag slipped out and fluttered to the floor. The man wiped at his eyeglasses with the cloth before examining the clipboard for a second time, a deep frown furrowing his brow.

"Look angry," Sherlock said, then strode over to the pair.

John followed, lips pursed in unfeigned annoyance. How hard would it have been to provide a short explanation before barreling forward?

"I need to speak to whoever is in charge," Sherlock demanded.

The older man stiffened. "I'm the funeral director and this is my assistant, Rodney. Is there something wrong?"

"There is, indeed. Do you have any idea how upset Ms. Frost would be if she knew your staff had decorated the church and her casket with oriental lilies?"

The funeral director sputtered incoherently, then shot a furious look at his assistant, who began to frantically flip through his paperwork.

"It says here that lilies were her favorite," Rodney said.

"Day lily blossoms were her favorite, not those poisonous plants you have strewn about. How can you have such incompetent staff?” Sherlock asked. He jabbed a finger dangerously close to the funeral director’s Roman nose. "Let me guess, you've been out of town and left the entire thing in the hands of this incompetent twat.”

The older man’s hands fluttered about in distress. "I do apologize. How can my staff and I resolve this matter?"

"Remove the toxic flower arrangements from her burial site and replace them with the day lily blossoms she would have wanted. Or is it too difficult for you to honor her last wishes?"

The funeral director held up a hand. "Not to worry, sir," he said, "Rodney and I will see to it this very minute."

“I should hope so,” Sherlock replied. He spun around and headed to the front of the stage. As John followed, he heard the funeral director mutter to Rodney, "If you wish to keep your job, you’ll acquire day lily blossoms from the shop across the street. I’ll delay the guests by leading them over to the refreshment tables. You have fifteen minutes."

Two pairs of footsteps receded and a door slammed shut, leaving the two of them on stage. Well, three counting Ms. Frost.

“We’ve got fifteen minutes,” John said, relaying what he’d heard.

His friend’s head shot up. "Find out where the funeral director left his luggage. Look for it in an empty office or storage room. Bring it here." Sherlock tapped a finger against his lips. “And get me some sellotape while you're at it.”

John frowned. "Why?"

Sherlock ignored him, already busy sliding the decorations off the casket.

"Fine. I'll just go then," John muttered and headed towards the side door.

"One more thing," Sherlock said.

He looked back over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

"Don't get caught."

John rolled his eyes and headed back to the main entrance.

The woman at the front desk was on the phone and paid no attention as he walked past. The hallway was deserted, everyone led away by the flustered funeral director. The first few doors he tried were locked. Hopefully, the luggage wasn’t in either of those rooms as he had neither the skill nor inclination to pick the lock. He swung the next door open and found himself nose to nose with a wide-eyed priest. The bald gentleman clutched at his chest and let out a gasp.

John released the door knob and stumbled back. “I’m terribly sorry.”

The other man exhaled, then waved a dismissive hand. “Not to worry. You merely took a year off my life. Heaven’s just a bit closer now.”

John gave a weak chuckle, his mind racing to think of an explanation for being caught snooping about.

“Can I help you?” the priest asked, stepping out into the hallway and closing the office door firmly behind him.

John swallowed. “Erm, my girlfriend said she left her bag somewhere. I was looking for the lost and found.” The idiotic words tumbled out of his mouth without conscious thought. Oh god. He was lying to a priest.

The old man fixed him with a penetrating blue gaze. “Are you committing sins of the flesh with your girlfriend?”

“No,” he sputtered, heat filling his face. “We certainly aren’t.” John swallowed. At least not until later tonight.

A cheery smile spread across the bald man’s face and he clapped him on the shoulder. “Good, good. I suppose I can take you to the storage room then. Parishioners leave their coats and bags there during services. Lost items are usually left there.”

“Wonderful,” John replied weakly. The old man led him further down the hall and opened a door on the right. The light in the room revealed a coat rack and a table covered with purses, hats, and the odd pair of shoes.

“I’ll just leave you to it,” said the priest, leaving John alone in the storage room.

He walked around the room and stumbled over something sticking out from below the table. He peeked underneath and there it was. It was one of those over-sized luggage bags with wheels, the kind women tended to fill to bursting. Who would have thought a funeral director needed so much space? A neon green tag was attached to the zipper. John popped up the handle and rolled it out of the room and back down the hallway.

The receptionist was still on the phone. She put her hand over the receiver when he stopped in front of her desk. “May I borrow some sellotape, please?”

The distracted woman slid open a drawer and shoved a roll of tape into his hand. He smiled. That wasn’t so difficult. Checking his watch, he quickened his steps.

Arriving back on the stage, he found Sherlock had rolled the casket behind the curtains, the lid now open.

"There's not enough light," Sherlock grumbled as he bent over the old woman's corpse. Rebecca Frost’s grey hair fell loosely around her face, her eyes shut, expression peaceful. Despite it being a closed casket service, a sheen of make-up painted her wrinkled skin a light rose. She was dressed in a pale blue gown, the toenails of her bare feet painted to match.

John cleared his throat. "I've got the luggage."

Sherlock glanced over at the rolling bag. "Toss the contents onto the floor."

Requesting an explanation at this point would only lead to frustration, so he complied, only pausing when he discovered a set of adult footie pajamas, decorated with skulls. Choking back a nervous giggle, he set the pajamas on top of the large pile of clothing.

Sherlock moved to stand behind Ms. Frost’s head. "I'll grab her shoulders and you grab her legs."

John frowned. "What do you have in mind exactly?"

His friend sighed, letting the front half of the body flop back into the casket. "We're taking her with us, of course. I have neither the time nor the light necessary for a proper examination."

John gaped at his friend. "Stealing a corpse is illegal."

A single brow rose. “Only if we’re caught. Besides, you just stole a man’s luggage.”

“That’s different,” John protested. Stealing luggage was not the same as stealing a dead body.

His friend rested his hands on the front of the casket and leaned forward. “We have to take her now. Don't you want justice for Ms. Frost?"

John glared at him. "Don't try to manipulate me, Sherlock. It won't work. Why can't we just tell the funeral director what's going on?"

"Don't be absurd. If one person finds out, there’s a possibility everyone will, including the murderer. We don't want to show our hand at this point."

John closed his eyes, counted backwards from ten, and then opened them. "Fine."

"Good, now grab her feet."

They lifted her out of the casket and onto the floor, next to the empty bag.

"I don’t think she’s going to fit," John said. Rebecca Frost had been a tall woman.

"Well, she’s going to have to. It's not like we can carry her out like this."

"This is wrong. This is so wrong," John said as he guided the dead woman’s legs into the bag.

"Wait, you have to fold her knees up to her chest."

John did so and a groan gurgled forth from the mouth of the corpse. The noise startled him so badly, he fell back a step.

Sherlock stared down at the body, an expression of horror on his face. "Give me the tape!”

John shoved the sellotape into Sherlock's waiting hand and his friend tore off a number of pieces, sealing Ms. Frost’s mouth and nose. “Stupid, stupid. I should have done this before moving her. I only hope the residual gases haven’t escaped. Help me get her in before someone comes back. We’re running out of time."

With a bit of creative finagling, they got her completely inside the bag.

John tugged at the zip. It made it halfway before refusing to go any further. “It’s not going to close. There’s not enough room.”

“We’ll make room.” Sherlock stepped on top of the case, holding onto the edge of the casket for balance. He bounced up and down. There was a crunching sound and the luggage gave way.

"We've desecrated her body," John moaned. They were going straight to hell.

"It’s not as if she cares. She's dead," Sherlock said, zipping the bag shut. He picked up the funeral director's belongings and tossed them into the casket. "This isn't going to weigh enough. I need you to find me something heavy to place inside. They'll notice if it’s this light."

Stomach twisting, John searched around the back of the stage, grateful for the distraction. Deep in the shadows, he found a step ladder. He brought it over to Sherlock. "Will this do?"

"Yes, just arrange the clothing around it so it doesn’t slide about when the casket is lifted."

After John finished with the task, Sherlock lifted one end of the casket and gave it a shake. No noise came from within. He closed the lid and rolled it back out to the front of the stage, then placed the floral decorations on top.

"Time to go.” Sherlock gestured imperiously for John to take the luggage.

He responded with an emphatic shake of his head. “This was your idea. You can bloody well take her yourself.”

Sherlock shrugged. "Fine, I don’t see why you’re being so squeamish about it. You’re a doctor." With that, he walked out the back door, pulling the luggage behind him.

“Yes, and as a doctor I have moral standards I strive to uphold.” His eyes watered in response to the abrupt change in lighting, the overcast sky glaringly bright.

Sherlock scoffed. “By moral standards, you mean an inconvenient code of conduct created by man to govern proper behavior.”

John shook his head as they walked down a pathway behind the church. “So, you’d prefer anarchy, then? More murders to solve?”

“No, I simply consider the rules to be flexible guidelines, adjusting them as the situation requires it.”

It was John’s turn to scoff. “Meaning, you only follow the rules when it’s convenient.”

Sherlock looked down his nose at him. “Sometimes the rules need to be broken. Lady London clothes herself in shades of grey, after all.”

John rolled his eyes. Sherlock fancied himself to be a philosopher, waxing poetic about moral ambiguities. It made him sound like a pompous ass, the only family trait Sherlock appeared to share with Mycroft. Although, Mycroft managed to be a pompous ass all the time.

They rounded the corner of the church and into a crowd of people in line for refreshment. Bloody hell. John shot a horrified glance at Sherlock. What if they ran into the funeral director and he noticed his luggage bag?

Sherlock bent down as if to tie his shoe and deftly pocketed the neon green tag hanging from the zip. They wove their way through the large crowd, the heavy bag tottering on its wheels over the church’s green lawn.

Red hair fluttered in the breeze, catching John’s attention. Miss Walker was surrounded by a group of people chattering away at her. She didn’t look particularly happy, arms folded tightly across her chest. They were nearly free from the crowd when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. John winced. They were buggered. Steeling himself, he turned to face who’d stopped him. Relief washed over him, leaving him light-headed. It wasn’t the funeral director at all, but Mr. Giles.

“Were you able to do an examination?” the butler whispered, his face scrunched up in concern.

“More or less,” Sherlock replied.

John coughed. “I’m certain we’ll have more information for you soon.”

The man’s face relaxed. “Wonderful. The rest of Ms. Frost’s relatives will be leaving Aria in the next few days. You’re more than welcome to stay at the manor to continue your investigation. I’ve already received permission from Miss Walker.”

Sherlock frowned. “Did you tell her the reason behind our involvement?”

“No, I only said you were helping me with a personal matter.”

“Good.” Sherlock’s gaze fell to the luggage bag. “Do you have a walk-in freezer?”

Giles blinked. “Yes, we do.”

“How large?”

“100 square feet.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “That should work.”

The man looked understandably confused. “So, will you and Doctor Watson be staying then?”

“Yes, you can expect me to arrive early evening. John will likely not arrive until late tomorrow morning, depending on how his date goes.”

The older man’s eyebrows rose. John felt like kicking his friend. Thankfully, one of the ladies who had served them tea at the manor tapped Mr. Giles on the shoulder. The crowd began to trickle towards the cemetery. Little did they know they were going to witness the burial of the funeral director’s clothing and a step ladder.

The butler gave them a nod. “I’ll see you gentlemen later.”

They headed around the front of the church and flagged down a cab. Sherlock had a possessive hand on the luggage and wouldn't let the driver touch it, instead, settling it between them. Would the cabbie charge more if he knew there were actually three passengers?

"What do you need to perform a full examination of the body?" John asked.

"I plan on borrowing equipment from St. Bart’s. I’ll examine her in the wine cellar and then store her body in the freezer for safe-keeping."

“And, what, you’ll put a sign on her saying, ‘Experiment in Progress,’ like you do with your jars of eyeballs? What if someone finds her?” John asked.

“I’ll figure something out. Besides, I would have thought you’d be pleased.”

John shot his friend an incredulous look. “Why on earth would I be pleased?”

“For three reasons,” Sherlock said. He held up a finger as he listed them off. “One, you’re not late for your date. Two, you don’t have to worry about a corpse on our kitchen table.”

“And the third?”

His friend shot him a smug smile. “You’ll get to enjoy attentive service from the staff at Aria.”

“Attentive service?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I’m talking about tea, John. As much as you want, whenever you want, for as long as we’re there.”

A slow grin spread across his face. “I have to say, this is one of your more brilliant ideas.”

Sherlock gave the luggage bag a surreptitious little pat. “All my ideas are brilliant.”


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock heaved the luggage bag containing Rebecca Frost’s corpse up onto the table. Transporting her body and the equipment he’d needed down into the wine cellar had been easier than expected. Giles had instructed the red-haired teen to assist him, the same young man who had answered the manor door yesterday and had brought out payment to the cabbie. He was efficient, despite his inane chatter and curious glances at the medical equipment. Sherlock ignored his questions and the young man finally fell silent, proving he wasn’t entirely void of functioning grey matter.

Asher or Ashby, or whatever his name was, plugged in a lamp and aimed it at the soon to be christened autopsy table. Shelves filled with wine bottles organized by year and type stretched out across the room. The back corner of the cellar was the best place for the examination as it was hidden from view from the entryway and the prying eyes of curious servants. He removed his coat, hung it over a nearby chair and rolled up the sleeves of his maroon shirt. The chill air brushed against the bare skin of his forearms.

“Guard the entrance to the cellar. Don’t come in or leave until I instruct you to do so.”

The boy’s face fell. “Won’t you at least tell me what’s in the bag? I won’t tell anyone, I swear.”

Sherlock drummed long fingers across the tabletop. “There’s a cadaver inside.”

The teen rolled his eyes. “Fine then. Don’t tell me.” He shuffled to the door, hands shoved into his trouser pockets, skinny elbows akimbo. “Nobody ever tells me anything.”

Sherlock smirked as the door slammed shut. After slipping on a pair of nitrile gloves, he unzipped the bag, and gently unfolded Ms. Frost across the table. Her body was a little worn, but he’d seen worse. The crunching noise from earlier had been the sound of her wrist and forearm breaking, crushed at an awkward angle between her knee and chest.

A sharp pair of scissors made quick work of her gown and the silky material parted to pool on either side of her body. Judging by the lack of sutures, the coroner had skipped doing an in depth autopsy altogether. Sherlock ran a hand down her sternum and probed her ribcage. Excellent. There were no signs of additional broken bones.

Unfortunately, the sellotape had proved to be a poor seal and any lingering gases in her lungs had escaped.

Time for plan B. Light glinted off the scalpel as he made a five-inch incision between her sixth and seventh rib. He extracted a sizable sample of lung tissue and divided it among a number of test tubes.

Now for the formaldehyde. He added a few drops to mix with half of the tissue samples and set them aside. The remainder were covered in a solution of sodium hypochlorite. It would take twenty-four hours for the tissue to digest, leaving any chemical residue behind to settle as sediment in the bottom. He sealed the second set of tubes and placed them in the coldest corner of the cellar, hidden behind a 1982 bottle of  _Chateau Haut Brion Pessac-Lognan_. He recalled sampling the French wine years ago, the scent of leather, smoked herbs, and the taste of black currants.

He removed a thin sliver of the now formaldehyde-preserved lung tissue and deposited it onto a glass slide. A drop of hematoxylin and eosin stain followed. Allowing the tissue to absorb the dye, he sandwiched the sample with another slide and slipped it beneath his microscope. The red of the blood vessels and the blue of the terminal bronchiole were simple to spot. He increased the magnification, searching for answers, anomalies.

Scarred tissue spoke of her history of respiratory disease and a few grey spots of pneumonia. There had to be more. He zoomed in even further. The damaged cells now looked enlarged and jagged, as if something had inflamed them.

Sherlock smiled. “You’re becoming more interesting by the minute, Ms. Frost.”

The coroner had been partly correct. Ms. Frost had indeed expired from respiratory failure. However, as Sherlock had deduced, a chemical of some kind had aided in her demise. Pity he had to wait until tomorrow to find out more.

With a sigh, he folded Ms. Frost back into her earlier position and covered her completely in cling film. It would at least prevent freezer burn from damaging the tissue in case additional samples were required. He shoved her back inside the bag then wrapped heavy duty tape around the luggage, effectively sealing it shut. He attached a bright orange sign he’d borrowed from St. Bart’s Hospital onto the front of the bag. The notice read, ‘Contagion: In case of damage or leakage, immediately notify public health.’ It was highly unlikely anyone would risk tampering with the bag, especially if he had his teenage helper hide it deep within the freezer. Now, he just needed to get the young man to cooperate.

“You may come back in.” Sherlock’s voice echoed off the stone walls.

The teen slunk back into the room, face still twisted in annoyance. Sherlock tossed him a pair of gloves. “Put these on.”

“Why?”

“Because, Ashby, you’ll need them when handling this package.”

“My name is Asher.” He scowled. His blue eyes widened as he caught sight of the warning notice.

Sherlock waited to see whether the boy’s sense of duty would win out over his fear of contamination. He needed Asher wary enough to avoid investigating the bag, but not so fearful as to refuse to help. He wasn’t about to go dragging the corpse across the manor. He had better things to do.

Rapidly losing patience, Sherlock pulled out his wallet and extracted a twenty pound note. He’d have to make another tedious withdrawal at this rate. He cleared his throat. Asher’s gaze wrenched away from the orange sign and locked on the bill. Moving the note to the left, Sherlock watched as the boy’s eyes followed after it, much like a dog tracking a treat.

He had him. Greed trumped fear every time.

Sherlock tightened his grip on the money before Asher could take it. “You will hide this bag in the deepest, darkest corner of the walk-in freezer and you won’t speak of this to anyone. Have I made myself clear?”

“I’ll hide the bag in the freezer and I won’t tell anyone.”

“Excellent.” Sherlock released the money into the young man’s hand. After slipping on the gloves, Asher gingerly lifted the luggage off the table and set it on the ground. Pulling the bag behind him, he slowly made his way to the door, as if any sudden movement might cause the bag to explode.

“Oh and Asher?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You may want to take a long shower after you’ve finished.”

Asher gulped. “Yes, sir.” He eased the door open and began the long climb up the stairs.

The lengthy shower would keep the young man out of trouble, for a while, at least. Sherlock chuckled. He bet John wasn’t having nearly as much fun as he was. Of course, their definitions of fun were quite different.

Sherlock left the cellar and caught the attention of a passing aproned servant. “I’d like to be shown to my room.”

The middle-aged woman nodded. “Of course, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock followed her across the east wing of  _Aria_. The hallway was heavily carpeted, the cream-colored walls and high ceiling well-lit by a long line of simple chandeliers. Each guest room door had a musical style written across it in a flourishing script. They passed a desk decorated with an oriental vase, and a room labeled  _Acceso_ , before coming to a stop in front of  _Sognando_. She opened the door and ushered him inside. Sherlock was pleased to note his luggage had already been placed on the bed.

“Where will John be staying?”

The woman gestured at the room directly across from Sherlock’s, labeled  _Pastorale_. She turned back to face him and wrung her hands. “I’m afraid dinner has already been served, but I can have something brought to your room, if you’d like.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“If you should change your mind, you need only to ring the bell,” she said. He nodded her dismissal and she left, the door shutting silently behind her.

The blue and grey guest room was furnished simply, but luxuriously. The bed, curtained windows, and fireplace blended together in perfect harmony, reflecting the efforts of an experienced and expensive decorator. The terraced ceiling was painted to look like a summer sky. Sherlock flipped the light switch off and was unsurprised to find stars glowing faintly between the white puffy clouds. He snorted and turned the light back on. A bit contrived, but he supposed it was rather fitting for the room.  _Sognando_ , to play dreamily.

Despite managing to prevent a single drop of formaldehyde from touching him, the stench of the acrid chemical clung to his skin and clothing. He needed a shower. The grey marble bathroom was a far cry from the turquoise claw foot tub at 221B. Dual shower heads provided excellent coverage, the heat and water pressure exquisite. Ignoring the provided hair and body products, he opened his own travel-sized bottles. Mother had told him he’d inherited his Byron-like curls from her side of the family. They were a nuisance. Using the wrong product could cause his hair to rebel, fluffing out in a ridiculous fashion, much like Mycroft’s stomach after a week of eating cake. Sherlock was willing to take a number of risks, but looking ridiculous wasn’t one of them. A pity his brother didn’t hold to the same standard.

He slipped on a plush white robe and stepped back into the bedroom to retrieve a fresh set of clothing. Unzipping his bag, he froze as a draft of cool air blew across the back of his bare legs. Whirling about, he came face to face with a gaping Miss Walker.

“Sorry! Wrong room.” She stumbled backwards, her eyes wide. In her haste to escape, she dropped a duffel bag and bumped into a bedside table on which stood a priceless Chinese vase. It wobbled back and forth, then began to fall to one side.

Sherlock lunged forward. He threw his arms around either side of Miss Walker and steadied the toppling treasure behind her. A sharp breath escaped his mouth as he caught the vase before it could shatter.

He released his hold on the precious artifact and moved away from Miss Walker’s rigid body. He found himself looking up at her. Again. Sherlock hadn’t needed to look up at anyone since an encounter with a giant golem of a man five years ago. His lip curled at the sight of her ridiculously tall high heels. On equal ground, his six foot frame would have towered over her by at least three inches. Ruddy cheater.

Miss Walker tried to shift away from him, but he caught her elbow before she could knock into the table a second time. “Careful. That vase is over three hundred years old.”

She glanced over her shoulder at it. A Chinese dragon and lotus flower spiraled across the pristine porcelain. “Expensive?”

“Very. Although, soon enough money won't be much of an issue for you.”

Her head tilted to the side, revealing the ever present slender Bluetooth ear-piece curved over her right ear.

A drop of water from his still damp hair slipped down the side of his face, over his Adam’s apple, then slid across his chest. He wiped at it and frowned. “Won’t you be signing the inheritance paperwork tomorrow?”

She blinked and shook her head, a rueful twist to her mouth. “Yes, I will. It’s a bit of an adjustment finding oneself independently wealthy. It doesn’t seem quite real.”

“After tomorrow, I imagine you'll be free to knock over all the vases you want. I suggest you start with the one back down the hall.”

“Why?”

“It's a fake.”

“How do you know?”

Releasing her elbow, he attempted to look down his nose at her. “Oh please. The design was poorly executed, the gold embellishment blobbed on, the color burnished rather than bright. I determined its authenticity in less than three seconds.”

Miss Walker only stared at him.

“Judging by your vacant expression, perhaps I should use simpler language. The workmanship was shoddy. I don’t expect you to understand, but I do advise you to take me at my word. I’m a consulting detective. The only one in the world. I’m also a genius, but you’re already familiar with my reputation, aren’t you, Miss Walker?”

Her strange behavior following their introduction at the law firm was all the evidence he’d needed.

Her eyes dropped from his and his smirk widened as two bright spots of color appeared high on her cheekbones. The rosy blush spread down her neck and across her chest before disappearing beneath the neckline of her black dress.

Her hands darted forward and cool fingers brushed across his bare abdomen to clutch at the front of his robe. Gooseflesh broke out across his skin at the unexpected contact and he flailed backwards. His hands shot forward to wrench the robe out of her now vice-like grip.

Wide green eyes met his affronted gaze. “Careful. I’ve seen quite enough.”

He went still. Glancing down, he discovered the tie on his robe had come partially undone. Not enough for Miss Walker to see everything, but enough for her to get an eyeful of his naked chest, stomach, and upper thigh. He eased the robe from her hands and tied it securely this time.

Face still red, she cocked an eyebrow. “I would have thought a genius would know how to tie a simple knot.”

Heat crept up the back of his neck for no reason. He certainly wasn’t embarrassed. He couldn’t care less she’d nearly seen him naked or that she was questioning his abilities. It was clear the woman was intellectually challenged.

He scowled. “And I would have thought it impossible for someone to arrive at the wrong room, unless they were some kind of idiot, what with each door being labeled by name.”

Miss Walker glared and his stomach muscles tensed at the level of fury he saw in her gaze.

She snatched up the duffel bag and swept out of the room. The door slammed behind her.

He shook his head. Women.

Sherlock dressed and exited the room. He had little enough time to investigate Ms. Frost’s family before they left and he intended to make the most of it. Walking down the hall, he heard a girl’s tearful voice coming from behind a guest room door.

“I didn’t lose it, Mum. I swear I had it when we were at the funeral. I kept it in my coat pocket the whole time.”

“Then I suggest you keep looking for it, Beatrix, or your father is going to blow a gasket. Mobiles don’t grow on trees.”

He continued down the hall. The faint sound of piano music caught his ear and he followed it to an unlabeled room. Sherlock eased the door open so as not to alert the room’s occupant. He needn’t have worried though. The man hunched over the grand piano was so engrossed in his playing he likely wouldn’t have noticed if a herd of elephants stampeded past him.

One haunting minor chord followed after another in a slow and agonizing lament. The man faltered over an intricate passage, then allowed the discordant notes to die away, leaving the composition unfinished.

Sherlock cleared his throat and the man jerked in surprise, craning his head around to face him.

“You need to practice more with your left hand. It tenses and jumps over the more technical parts. Also, your pedaling could use some work. You sustain the notes for far too long which results in a blurring of passages.”

The man stared up at him for a moment, then curled in on himself, covering his face with his hands. Rapid huffs of breath and moist gasps filled the now silent room. The man’s shoulders shook with some deep emotion he couldn’t name. Sherlock eyed the door. Perhaps now would be a good time to leave. First, that idiotic woman and now this sniveling man. This was why he preferred dealing with dead people.

The man raised his head and let out a loud chuckle. He spun around on the piano bench, face red and blotchy, and a lopsided grin on his face. “Thanks. I really needed a laugh.”

Sherlock’s brows drew together. “I wasn’t joking.” Was the man mad? He certainly appeared unhinged, with his blond hair sticking up as if he’d gripped at it with desperate hands.

Another wheezing laugh. “I believe you. Rebecca was always telling me the same thing. Go easy on the pedal, Neil, or watch your lazy left hand. It’s a bit sad I can’t even play my own compositions properly, isn’t it?”

Recognition flared. “You’re a member of the composing group who inherited the vacation home in Italy.”

He nodded and held out a hand. “Neil Henley, computer tech by day, amateur composer by night.”

“Sherlock,” he said, shaking his hand.

“Did you know Rebecca well?”

“No. I’m here on behalf of Mr. Giles. I’m helping him with a personal matter.”

“Oh.” Any trace of lingering amusement faded from his face. “Is everything all right with him?”

Before Sherlock could formulate a reply, the music room door swung open to reveal the butler. The old man’s face broke out into a smile as he caught sight of them. “Has Neil been entertaining you with his lovely compositions? He was Ms. Frost’s favorite student.”

Neil’s answering smile wavered and he stared down at his hands. “She was my favorite teacher.” His voice broke.

Mr. Giles’ eyes glittered and he gripped the younger man’s shoulder in silent support.

Sherlock barely refrained from rolling his eyes. Instead, he busied himself with counting the lines of grain in the black walnut wood of the grand piano. By the time the two men had managed to compose themselves he’d reached one hundred and thirty-seven. What excellent use of his time.

The butler straightened and cleared his throat. “Did you happen to ask your mother about Trixie?”

“Oh yes, I almost forgot to tell you.” Neil pulled out his mobile and squinted down at the screen. “She says to give her two fish oil capsules twice daily with her food, but if her joint pain doesn’t appear to improve in the next week or two, to call and make an appointment. Mum’s going on vacation soon, but Doctor Finch will be covering for her.”

Mr. Giles sighed. “I’ll have Asher try that then. The poor lad has grown quite attached to the old girl. She’s not the guard dog she used to be, but she’s earned her keep all these years. Rather like myself. Were you able to find your missing composition notebook?”

“No, I haven’t.” Neil’s grip tightened on his phone.

“That’s a shame. I’ll let the staff know, so they can keep an eye out for it then.”

“No need. I’d hate for anyone to go to any trouble. I must have left it at work or home. You know how absentminded I can be.” He stood up from the piano bench. “I do appreciate you allowing me to come here and play today. I really needed it.”

“I completely understand. I’ll check with Miss Walker, but I can’t imagine her being bothered if you were to come by every now and then to give this beauty a workout.” Mr. Giles gave the piano a pat. “And remember, young man, you’re welcome to visit me anytime.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Neil gave them both a nod then exited the room.

“Interesting fellow,” Sherlock said. “Do you know who he works for?”

Giles smiled. “He works for Selby Jennings, a new investment bank in London. From what I’ve heard, he’s done really well for himself. He’s even got a girlfriend now. She shocked the poor man silly when she asked him out. He thought it was some sort of prank at first.”

Sherlock gave a low hum in response.

The butler shook his head. “Oh listen to me, rambling on like the old man I am. I better write myself a note about those fish oil capsules before I forget.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a slender notepad, and a USB drive slipped out, landing on the carpet. Sherlock swooped down and picked it up. He handed it to Giles once he’d finished writing out his note.

“Oh thank you. I promised Miss Walker I’d give that to her this evening.”

“What’s stored on it?”

“It has Ms. Frost’s entire will and testament on it. Miss Walker flat out refused to deal with any actual paperwork and insisted upon a digital copy and digital signatures. The attorney was more than willing to comply. It seems a bit odd to me, but you young people love your technology.”

“Indeed we do,” Sherlock agreed. “Were you surprised by the will?”

Mr. Giles sat down on the piano bench and sighed. “Ms. Frost’s strained relationship with her family wasn’t a secret. Most of them are shallow and hungry for money. I certainly didn’t expect her to give me the guest house though.”

“What about Noelle Graves?”

“Ah yes. Ms. Frost used to holiday at Blackpool Sands in Devon as a child. She met Noelle there and the two were inseparable for three summers. Like children often do, the two lost touch, but Ms. Frost never forgot Noelle and her supportive attitude towards her music. It’s a shame she isn’t alive to enjoy Ms. Frost’s gift, but I’m relieved she has a daughter who can make use of it. I’m just pleased the estate didn’t go to anyone in the family.”

“Are any of them around this evening? I’d like to speak with them before they leave.”

The older man nodded. “Ms. Frost’s brother, George, and his wife Cynthia are in the sitting room. I’m afraid Matthew hasn’t been seen since his outburst. He didn’t even come back for his things, just left his bag in the guest room. His wife left  _Aria_  today, but I assume she didn’t head home.”

“I’m certain you’re correct. I do believe I’ll go have a chat with George and Cynthia.”

Sherlock headed out the door. Snippets of seemingly unrelated information whirled about in his head and amorphous theories danced just out of synaptic reach. It was aggravating and yet delightfully intriguing at the same time.

He smiled. There was nothing quite like a good puzzle. 


	6. Chapter 6

John’s mobile beeped for the hundredth time. Sighing, he scrolled through his latest text messages.

 _I fail to see why you had to cover Sarah’s shift._ -SH

 _Morning sickness is not a valid excuse. Can’t she take something?_  -SH

 _Clearly, she’s not a very good doctor._ -SH

 _If you don’t get here soon, I’m going to start experimenting on the staff._  -SH

Good grief. John was still frustrated over having to cut short his lovely morning with Abigail. He’d brought her breakfast in bed, intending to keep her naked for as long as possible, when his bloody mobile had rung. He’d reluctantly kissed her goodbye and headed to work to cover his co-worker’s eight hour shift. Fortunately, Abigail was understanding of the situation, unlike Sherlock, the bloody man-child. His friend had expected him to arrive at _Aria_ by ten o'clock. It was now half past six in the evening and the barrage of text messages had grown snarkier as the day wore on. Sarah owed him big time.

The cab pulled in front of the manor and John hopped out.

He gave an appreciative smile to the young man who took his luggage, then hurried inside and down the cellar stairs. His shoulders sagged in relief as he caught sight of Sherlock. His friend was the only one in the chilly room, no hapless victims in sight.

Sherlock set a dusty wine bottle back on a shelf. “Took you long enough.”

“Yes, well, it’s not like I planned on being late.”

Sherlock gave him a cursory glance. “I’m surprised you’re still snippy after an active evening and morning of pointless relations.”

John’s ears warmed. Refusing to respond, he walked around the table to where Sherlock’s laptop sat hooked up to a microscope. The computer’s fans hummed as the machine searched through what appeared to be an extensive list of chemical compounds.

“Ah. You’re irritated because you didn’t get a third opportunity. Really, John, you should consider having your testosterone levels checked. I’m sure there’s a medication out there that could help you with your affliction.”

A muscle in John’s jaw twitched. “There’s nothing wrong with me or my testosterone levels.” He set his palms flat on the table and leaned forward. “I can’t wait for the day when you join the rest of humanity.”

The logic-driven detective would go mad if he ever experienced a genuine emotion like love or desire for another human being. It would be like Christmas seven times over. If it ever happened, John planned on filming the whole thing and posting it on his blog.

“Prepare to be disappointed. I have no intention of demeaning myself in such a manner.”

“Intent has absolutely nothing to do with it.”

Sherlock only stared back at him, the arrogance in his pale blue eyes unwavering. John shook his head. Emotions needed to be experienced before they could be understood. At times, it felt like he was talking to a robot, but he knew without a doubt Sherlock Holmes had a heart lying dormant somewhere inside his chest. If it ever woke, all hell would break loose. He almost pitied the poor soul who stirred the slumbering beast. Almost. He’d be having too much fun watching Sherlock unravel bit by bit to care. It would serve the man right.

A few months ago, Sherlock secretly put castor oil in John’s tea to determine the effect it had on an average man’s bowels. The result was rather explosive, in more ways than one. His friend broke a cardinal rule: Never mess with another man’s tea. Ever. John would get his revenge. He just had to be patient.

With that fortifying thought, he changed the subject. “How’s the case progressing?”

“It isn’t,” Sherlock said, the sour expression on his face reminiscent of the time John had beaten him at Cluedo.

“What have you discovered so far?”

“Ah yes. Let’s see. Where shall I begin?” Sherlock whirled about. “Beatrix’s parents are incapable of tying their own trainers, let alone committing a murder. The few minutes I spent in their presence no doubt had a detrimental effect on my own IQ. None of the staff show any signs of homicidal tendencies. They’re all so distraught over Ms. Frost’s death. It’s positively revolting.”

“So, we have no suspects then.”

Sherlock waved a hand. “Oh no, there’s still plenty more ridiculous options to choose from. It could have been the clueless Miss Walker who came into my room by accident or Ms. Frost’s favorite music student, Neil. The man can’t even play his own compositions, but he’s somehow managed to acquire a girlfriend. They could be conspiring together.”

Ceasing his frenzied pacing, Sherlock spun around to face him. “I’ve solved it, John. The sick guard dog did it. And she is now suffering the consequences of exposure to some sort of corrosive chemical. Once my computer finds a match, we’ll phone Lestrade in to make the arrest.”

John folded his arms to prevent himself from slapping his manic friend in the face. “When was the last time you ate? Or slept?”

“Forget food or sleep. I need answers!”

John exhaled. “Really? Well, I’m feeling a bit peckish, so how about you accompany me upstairs while we wait for a result? You did say I could have tea anytime I want.”

Sherlock cast a frustrated glance at the laptop. The screen indicated the search was only fifty percent complete. He gripped the edge of the table, then deflated, shoulders slumping. “Fine."

Heading back upstairs, John gave one of the serving ladies a winning smile. “Would you mind terribly bringing me tea? I had to cover an unexpected shift at work and haven’t eaten since this morning.”

She winced. “Oh dear. Why don’t you and Mr. Holmes take a seat in the library? I’ll bring a tray to you shortly.”

“That would be lovely. Thank you.”

Warm wood paneling, book-filled shelves, cozy furniture, a crackling fire, and the joy of impending tea brought a smile to John’s face. With each step he took into the library, the stress of the day ebbed out through his shoes and sank into the soft carpet.

Miss Walker peered blearily up at him from a brown wingback chair. Despite the chair’s comfy shape, she appeared unable to relax into it. The firelight glinted off her red hair, the smooth strands shining like polished copper.

John halted, about to sit down on the sofa across from her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize anyone was in here. Would you prefer we leave?”

Miss Walker shook her head, then stiffened as Sherlock came into view. “Not at all. If I wanted solitude, I would have gone somewhere private.”

“Really? I was under the impression all the rooms here were open to invasion,” Sherlock said acidly, taking a seat in the matching chair beside her.

Her green eyes narrowed. “Then you’re mistaken. One must simply turn the lock for privacy. It’s really quite simple, like tying a knot.”

John eased down onto the sofa and looked from Sherlock to Miss Walker. What had he missed?

Sherlock opened his mouth, no doubt to provide a scathing retort, but was conveniently interrupted by a servant setting the tea tray onto the coffee table. A steaming teapot, three cups, biscuits, and a covered plate completed the spread.

“I managed to cobble something together for you,” the servant said with a wink at John, before slipping out.

He lifted the lid and the rich scent of pot roast filled his nose. The juicy cut of beef was slathered with horseradish mayonnaise and lovingly placed between two slices of French bread. There were even a few seasoned jersey potatoes on the side. Barely remembering his manners, John poured a cup of tea and offered it to Miss Walker, who took it after adding a single sugar cube. He shoved a cup of sweetened tea and a biscuit into Sherlock’s hand, then sat back on the sofa before his friend could protest.

John took a bite of the delightful sandwich and hummed as the savory flavors burst across his tongue. He was a happy man, especially since Sherlock had fallen uncharacteristically silent. He took another bite as the peaceful moment continued. Miss Walker gazed into the fire, teacup cradled in her hands. Sherlock stared at the back of her head and crushed his biscuit into dust, the crumbs falling onto his saucer. He’d set his tea back on the coffee table without drinking it. Stubborn git.

A teenage girl came into the library, hands clasped behind her back, and approached Miss Walker. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you’ll be needing me tomorrow.”

Her eyebrows rose. “What are your normal duties?”

The young maid flushed and fidgeted with the frilly edge of her starched apron. “Well, I used to bring tea to Ms. Frost and help her get dressed every morning and evening.”

“While I appreciate your offer of assistance, I’m quite capable of dressing myself.”

John expected the girl to flee the room, but surprisingly, she stood her ground. “What would you have me do then?”

Miss Walker’s uneasy gaze darted to him, to Sherlock, then back to the distraught girl. “I’ll speak to Giles and see what he suggests.”

The young woman nodded, then reached into her apron pocket and retrieved a sheet of paper. She offered it to Miss Walker. “We had a staff meeting today and I was told to deliver this to you.”

Miss Walker took the page. The flickering light of the fire sent shadows dancing across the document. She blinked twice, then shook her head, lifting a hand to rub at her temple. “What is this?”

“It’s a questionnaire,” the maid replied in a small voice. “The staff would like to know your preferences, so we can accommodate your needs when you stay here at _Aria_.”

“I see.” Miss Walker let the paper fall to her lap. “You’re very kind, but I’m afraid I won’t be staying here long. My work requires extensive travel.” She smiled. “Besides, I’m very low maintenance. I wouldn’t want to be any trouble.”

The girl gazed at her with wide brown eyes.

Miss Walker shifted in her seat. “I suppose I could answer the questions, but I would appreciate it if you’d send me a digital copy instead.” She wrote something down on the slip of paper and handed it back to the maid, who gazed at it with a bewildered expression.

“It’s my email address. Is there anything else you need?” Miss Walker asked, weariness in the lines of her face.

The young woman shook her head, curtsied, then hurried away.

Sherlock’s low chuckle filled the room. “If it’s your intention to alarm and demoralize the staff, you’re doing an admirable job.”

“I don’t recall asking for your opinion.” She set her cup down roughly onto its saucer.

John sucked in a large mouthful of tea and choked. He gave a coughing laugh and grinned over at Miss Walker. “Sherlock bestows his opinion on the world whether it’s wanted or not.” His smile faded. “She did seem nervous though.”

“You mean deduction, not opinion. Wanted or not, I am correct.” Sherlock smirked. “Even John noticed. Only an idiot would miss the signs of distress coming off that girl. Clearly, the staff is concerned about you taking over _Aria_.”

She frowned. “I don’t see why. I’m not planning on changing anything.”

“What do you do for a living, Miss Walker?”

A single auburn brow rose. “Is my occupation too difficult for you to deduce, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock’s nostrils flared.

Wonderful. John braced himself for the sudden onslaught of data.

Sherlock sat forward. “You work in an office environment. You stated you travel extensively, but I already gathered that from the size of your duffel bag and the fact you roll your clothing to maximize the available space. Your balance and posture tell me you wear high heels on a regular basis. You enjoy the power the extra height gives you, so you're not working in a position where you develop peer relationships, so not human resource management. You wear distasteful business suits in a poor attempt to minimize your femininity. This suggests you interact with high-powered businessmen. You’re either a CEO, project manager, or consultant of some kind.”

John eyed Miss Walker's charcoal grey business suit. It didn't look bad to him, other than the fact it hung loosely on her frame, as if she'd lost weight recently.

Miss Walker stared at Sherlock for a long moment before nodding. “I’m an organizational psychologist. Companies from around the world consult with me on how to better run their business.”

“So, you work independently then?” John asked. He wished he had his own private practice at times.

“No, I work for a company who hires me out.”

“Let me guess, you winnow out the bad eggs, elevate the worker bees, and increase a business’s efficiency, correct?” Sherlock asked.

Her mouth twisted. “Something like that.”

A hum of amusement. “You must not be very good.”

Miss Walker scowled. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to the staff. They’re the ones who are suffering from your lack of ability.”

John swallowed another mouthful of sandwich. The train wreck of a conversation hadn’t yet affected his appetite. Perhaps he was growing desensitized.

Sherlock continued. “You need to look at _Aria_ as a business with you as its permanent CEO. Understand how the estate functions and delegate the work accordingly.”

Miss Walker’s lips thinned and she gripped the arms of the chair. John knew the feeling. He often found himself wanting to strangle the man.

Giles entered the room, telephone in hand. “Miss Walker, there’s a call for you. Would you prefer to take it elsewhere?”

She shot a sour look at Sherlock. John reckoned she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he'd run her off. She shook her head. “I’ll take it in here, thank you.”

He handed her the phone, then moved to stand near the fireplace.

“Hello? Yes, it is.”

A disgusted expression crossed her face. “Really. Well, I'm afraid it'll cost you.”

She straightened in her chair. “I’ll let you decide how much it’s worth to you.”

There was a pause and then her eyebrows rose. "You'll make me pay? Right. Good luck with that." She ended the call with a huff.

“Oh dear. Not another one?” Giles asked, his tone concerned as he retrieved the phone from her.

“The third one today.” She grimaced. “I need some air. May I borrow a car, Mr. Giles?”

The butler blinked. “Of course. There are five vehicles in the garage and they all belong to you now. Monty is available to chauffeur you, if you’d like.”

“I prefer to go alone.”

“Do you have a vehicle preference?”

She shrugged. “Just give me something that handles well in the rain.”

“Ah, you’ll want the _Maxima_ then.”

John chuckled. “Ms. Frost owned a _Maxima_? I didn’t expect that.”

The butler smiled and shook his head. “Oh no. She nicknamed it the _Maxima_ because the engine never wore out.”

John stared at the man.

“A _maxima_ is a rare musical note. It’s six times as long as a whole note,” Sherlock informed everyone in a bored tone.

Giles bobbed his head in agreement. “You know your music theory, Mr. Holmes. The car is actually a 1955 Bentley Continental. Stylish and safe. I’ll have Monty bring it around for you, Miss Walker.”

“Thank you. I’ll be out front in a few minutes.” She nodded to John and headed out the door, ignoring Sherlock entirely.

He didn’t blame her. Sherlock was a git.

Giles pulled the tasseled cord hanging next to the fireplace and informed the answering servant of Miss Walker’s plans.

“What did she mean by ‘the third one today’?” John asked.

“A few individuals approached her at the funeral service claiming they’d left behind items at _Aria_. One odious man said he wanted to retrieve a painting he’d gifted to Ms. Frost years ago, while an elderly woman insisted she’d forgotten a gold necklace the last time she’d visited. I believe they wanted an opportunity to nick something from the manor. God knows what the latest person asked for.”

“That’s terrible,” John said, leaning forward to refill his teacup.

The butler sighed. “I expect I’ll have to start screening all the phone calls from now on.”

Sherlock eyed the clock above of the fireplace. “The database search should be complete by now."

"What search?" Mr. Giles asked.

"I dissolved a sample of Ms. Frost's lung tissue. My laptop is currently matching images from a database with those taken from my microscope to help identify the chemical responsible for her death." He stood. "You may as well join us.”

They followed Sherlock to the wine cellar. John made his way carefully down the stairs. It would be a shame to spill his tea.

Sherlock was already typing away like mad on his laptop, brow furrowed. He picked up his mobile and pushed a few buttons, then set it down on the table and scowled.

“Is there a problem?” Giles asked.

“I’m unable to access the Internet down here. Do you have access upstairs?”

The butler shook his head. “Ms. Frost despised the world wide web. She thought it was a waste of time. I think the gatehouse has access, but I believe it’s only there to run the security system.”

John frowned. “Why do you need the Internet?”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted as he stared at the laptop screen. “The chemical compound found in Ms. Frost’s lung tissue is unfamiliar to me.”

John set his tea cup on the table. “Maybe I can help.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Right.”

John’s hands clenched. He’d only been through bloody medical school. And if that wasn’t enough, he also knew the earth revolved around the sun, unlike a certain ignorant detective. “Try me.”

“The result came back as desflurane,” Sherlock said.

A spark flared in John’s mind. Was this what Sherlock experienced during his deductions? If so, he understood the appeal. A wide smile spread across his face.

His friend’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me.”

John chuckled and picked up his tea again. “Give me a minute. I’m enjoying this. Maybe I’ll get a tattoo with the date and time commemorating the moment when I knew something you didn’t.” He grinned over at Mr. Giles. “I even have a witness.”

Sherlock folded his arms. “I don’t care if you petition the crown for a holiday in your honor. In case you’ve forgotten, Mr. Giles hired us to solve the murder of his beloved employer. You’re withholding vital information while Ms. Frost’s killer escapes justice. It’s rather unprofessional of you.”

Heat filled his face. Sputtering, John faced the butler. “I do apologize. I didn’t intend to make light of the situation.”

The older man patted his arm. “It’s alright, Doctor Watson. I’m sure you meant no harm.”

Mr. Giles removed his reading glasses from his front pocket and proceeded to polish them with a clean handkerchief.

John rubbed the back of his neck and turned to Sherlock, who smirked. He ground his teeth together. Manipulative bastard.

Giles pocketed his reading glasses. “You were saying, Doctor Watson?”

“Right. Desflurane is a type of general anesthesia. It’s rapid onset and liquid at room temperature. It explains the heated vaporizer and why the tank left a deeper imprint in the carpet.”

“What else?” Sherlock asked.

He wracked his brain for any other details. “It can cause tachycardia and airway irritability in higher concentrations.”

“What about respiratory distress in an elderly woman with breathing problems?”

“Yes, definitely. No doctor would use that type of anesthesia on a patient with a history of lung disease.”

The older man tilted his head to the side. “I’m sure you gentleman know more about this sort of thing than I do, but it seems like an odd way to kill a person. What was the point of the automatic timer?”

“I suppose it was to allow the anesthesia to inflame her airway over time.” John shrugged. “Though there’s really no way anyone could have known for certain it would kill her, as the dosage provided through the vaporizer wouldn’t have been enough to even cause unconsciousness.”

Sherlock shook his head and paced the room, muttering to himself. “Sloppy. Is it sloppy? Why is it sloppy?” He stalked up and down the wine-filled aisles. After a moment, he halted and spun on his heel to face them. “The killer could have easily introduced a fatal dose of anesthesia into the vaporizer the very first night. Why didn’t he?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” John said.

“Quick - list off all the reasons for anesthesia.”

“Uh, well,” John stuttered. “It’s used to block the body’s response to pain, relax skeletal muscles, inhibit motor reflexes, help a patient forget a medical procedure, and to induce unconsciousness.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “It was an accident.” It came out a reverent whisper.

The butler cast John a sideways glance and he gave a half shrug. He had no idea what Sherlock was on about.

“It was a bloody accident! Don’t you see?” Sherlock ran a hand through his curly black hair, then stared at them. It was almost as if he thought the intensity of his gaze could somehow force them to understand.

John folded his arms. “Explain, Sherlock.”

“Ms. Frost was exposed to desflurane for three nights. Why issue small doses? Clearly, someone wanted her alive.”

“Why would she tell me someone was trying to kill her then?” The butler’s hands twisted around his handkerchief.

John shook his head. “Delirium or paranoia isn’t uncommon with patients exposed to anesthesia, but I still don’t understand the use for desflurane if it wasn't meant to take her life.”

Sherlock sat down in the only available chair and steepled his hands beneath his chin. “I believe someone was trying to extract information from Ms. Frost. They went to great lengths to ensure the dosage was delivered late in the evening and spread out over a few days. The anesthesia would have made her more vulnerable to interrogation and she would have had no memory of any encounter. It’s rather clever.”

“Except for her unintended death,” John said in a dry tone.

“There is that.”

The old man’s brow wrinkled. “I don’t understand. Why would someone want to question Ms. Frost?”

“Maybe she discovered something she shouldn’t have,” John said.

Sherlock’s head shot up, and he focused on Mr. Giles. “The phone call Miss Walker took. Did the caller identify himself?”

The butler frowned. “Lizzie is the one who answered it. She was too nervous to approach her after the encounter in the library, so I brought it to Miss Walker myself.”

“Do you have any idea where Miss Walker was headed? Do you have her mobile number?”

Mr. Giles shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

“That complicates things.”

“Why?” John asked, feeling unaccountably concerned.

Arrogant blue eyes met his. “I have reason to believe our accidental killer has set his sights on Miss Walker.”

They stared at him in stunned silence.

John swallowed.

Sherlock was rarely wrong.


	7. Chapter 7

“Why on earth do you think the killer is now after Miss Walker?” the butler asked, shoving his handkerchief into his pocket.

The sloppy action in lieu of the man’s usual tidiness indicated genuine distress.

Sherlock frowned. How odd. Miss Walker had only been around for a few days, yet already the old man was concerned for her welfare. Strange how people were so quick to form attachments to one another. It made them far too easy to manipulate.

He raised a brow. “I can provide you with a lengthy explanation, but I expect it would reflect poorly on you if your second employer was kidnapped, injured, or violently murdered in the meantime.”

The butler paled. “Should I call the police?”

He waved away the suggestion. “They wouldn’t be any help.”

“How are we supposed to track her down with no mobile number or any idea of where she’s gone?” John asked.

“Both of you shut up,” Sherlock said, earning a reproachful glare from his friend.

He didn’t care. The constant data flowing into his brain overwhelmed him at times and impeded his ability to process pertinent information.

His gaze caught on the butler’s fingernails. They were pitted with tiny holes, a classic sign of psoriasis.

The dark circles beneath John’s eyes indicated little sleep the previous night, but his relaxed posture told Sherlock his friend had thoroughly enjoyed himself.

Utterly useless. The information was irrelevant to the problem at hand, yet every minute observation logged itself into his brain, whether he wanted it or not. It was incredibly irritating.

He shut his eyes to block out the visual stimuli, but the sounds of squeaking rubber soles and loud exhalations distracted him. “For god’s sake. Stop moving. Stop breathing. I’m trying to think.”

Two seconds of quiet reigned and the answer coalesced in his mind.

Sherlock opened his eyes and focused on Mr. Giles. “People utilize nicknames when they’ve formed some sort of absurd attachment to an object or person. Was the Maxima Ms. Frost’s favorite vehicle?”

“Yes, she used it often and made certain it received detailed care.”

“Did she have a security system installed?”

“Yes, it was updated last year.”

“Is it equipped with a GPS system?”

Mr. Giles winced. “It is. I’m daft for not thinking of it sooner. I have the paperwork in a cabinet in my office.”

“Excellent. Meet us at the gatehouse. An Internet connection is required to pinpoint her location. Also, we’ll need to borrow a car, a fast one. Put mine, John’s, and Miss Walker’s luggage inside.”

John shot him a questioning glance.

“It may not be safe for her to come back to Aria,” Sherlock said. “Ms. Frost already lost her life here.”

“I’ll do whatever you think is best, Mr. Holmes,” Giles said, then hurried up the stairs.

Sherlock disconnected the microscope from his laptop and slid his computer into its protective case. He and John left the cellar and headed out the front door. A driver already waited to take them to the gatehouse.

Before Sherlock opened the car door, a servant ran down the front steps with a folder in her hand. “Mr. Holmes. Mr. Giles told me to give this to you.”

Sherlock took it from her and entered the car.

John took the seat beside him. “Are you planning on giving me an explanation at some point?”

“Do you need one?”

The silhouettes of tall trees blurred as they sped down the drive.

“Don’t be an ass. You’re being purposefully enigmatic.”

“It’s what I do.”

John sighed, but made no further protest, and they completed the remainder of the ride in blessed silence.

The gatehouse wasn’t a house at all, but a cramped box, too small to accommodate the two of them, let alone the rotund guard on duty.

“Disable the security system,” Sherlock said.

The man complied without question, an indication Mr. Giles had already informed him of their imminent arrival.

Sherlock detached the Internet cable connected to the panel and set it on the desk. The guard hovered beside him, the man’s sickly sweet breath whuffling in and out.

Sherlock pointed to the door. “Get out.”

The grey uniformed guard blinked. “What?”

There was raspberry colored stain on the man’s sleeve, a matching stain on the handle of a partially open drawer, and repetitious smudges on the screen of a mobile phone on the desk. Sherlock slid the rolling desk chair out, opened the drawer and removed a pink pastry box. He set the jam-stained container on the seat of the chair and placed the man’s phone on top.

He shoved the chair at the startled guard and herded him out the door. “You can finish off your jam donuts and amuse yourself with ‘Angry Birds’ outside.”

John brushed past him to speak to the guard. “Sorry, mate. We’re in a bit of a hurry.”

Sherlock ignored the guard’s unintelligent response and swept the junk off the desk to make room for his laptop. He connected the cable to his computer and a quick test proved the Internet was now accessible. He opened the file folder the servant had given him and skimmed through the relevant documents.

Brickhouse Security had installed a battery powered GPS vehicle tracker last October. Sherlock logged into the company’s web site and clicked on the vehicle icon to track the Bentley. A map popped up with a spinning hourglass.

The door to the gatehouse opened and Asher came in, followed by John.

“What are you doing here?” Asher asked, sliding a card out of a plastic pocket holder on the wall.

“I’m working. Get out.”

“I can’t. I’ve gotta clock out.”

“Well, do it faster. I don’t need an audience.”

The young man filled out his time card in an untidy scrawl, glancing up as the computer pinged.

Sherlock stared at the glowing red dot on the map. It wasn’t moving.

John leaned around him. “77 Chatsworth Road in Worthing.”

A low whistle came from Asher. “You’re going to Eden for work? Maybe I should switch jobs.”

Sherlock managed to turn around in what little space was available. “Tell me what you know.”

The teenager grinned. “It’s a posh nightclub. They have this giant apple tree growing near the dance floor and there’s a crazy guy there who looks like a serpent.” Asher’s eyes darted away and he gave a half shrug. “I mean, that’s what my older brother told me. I haven’t actually been there.”

“Of course you haven’t,” he said, going along with the lie. “Now, get out.”

Asher appeared more than happy to comply, likely relieved he and John weren’t going to tattle to Giles about his extracurricular activities.

Accessing the preferences on the Brickhouse Security system, Sherlock added his email to the account so he’d receive a message alerting him to any changes in activity. He also downloaded the security app onto his mobile to make it easier to track the car.

“Time to go,” he said, sliding the laptop back into its case. He followed John out the door and almost bumped into his friend who had come to an unexpected stop. After slipping past him, it was easy to see why. Two floodlights from the gatehouse shone down upon Giles and a 1966 Jaguar E-type. The sleek two-seater coupe could go 0 to 96 kph in 7 seconds.

John reached out a trembling hand and caressed the shiny black bonnet. “This car was voted the most beautiful vehicle in the world.” The round chrome gilded headlights were blinding in their intensity.

“I hope it’s fast enough for you, Mr. Holmes.” Giles handed him the keys. “The luggage bags are in the boot, but I’m afraid there’s not much room otherwise.”

“It’s fine.” Sherlock opened the door and set his laptop behind the tan leather seat. It fit, just barely. “We’ll let you know as soon as we’ve found Miss Walker.”

“Thank you.” The butler gestured to the security guard and the iron gate opened with a clang.

Sherlock turned the ignition and the 4.2 litre engine purred to life. He smiled. This was going to be fun.

John double-checked his seatbelt. “How come I’m not driving?”

Sherlock tossed his phone to him. “Because I need you to be the navigator and because you drive like a half-blind grandmother.”

“I do not.”

“Yes, you do. Why do you think I didn’t let you drive to Dartmoor years ago? We’d still be on our way home.”

“There’s nothing wrong with driving defensively.”

“There is, when it triples your drive time.”

John’s driving issues originated from avoiding mines on the war-riddled roads of Afghanistan, though the man had never admitted to it.

“Where do I turn?” Sherlock asked.

John fiddled with the phone. “At the Ridley’s Corner Roundabout, take the third exit onto Worth Park Avenue.”

The car hugged the curve of the roundabout, the ride smooth and easy. After the road straightened out, he shifted gears and the car leapt forward in response, as if it was as eager as he to reach their destination.

Sherlock glanced at John. “You have questions.”

“Yes, of course, I’ve got questions.”

“Ask away,” he said, passing a slow moving lorry.

“Why do you think our accidental killer is after Miss Walker?”

“You’re not asking the right question, John.”

An exasperated sigh came from the passenger seat. “What should I be asking?”

“The key issue is determining what he wants.”

“Fine. What’s he after then?”

Sherlock hummed. “Look at the evidence. It suggests our criminal wanted Ms. Frost alive, but for what? He was after information of some kind, something only Ms. Frost could provide.”

“That’s all well and good, but I fail to see how Miss Walker is now involved.”

“She’s the new heir to the estate. Two people approached her at the funeral saying they’d misplaced items at Aria and wanted to collect them. Then a stranger calls the manor asking about another item. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

“I thought they were just greedy sods.”

“The first two are. Our caller is a different story. I have reason to believe he’s our killer.”

“But why come after Miss Walker?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Did you even listen to her phone conversation or were you too busy stuffing your face?”

“The call barely lasted a minute.”

He waited.

Oncoming headlights flashed, illuminating his friend’s irritated expression. “What did I miss?”

“She told the caller it was going to cost him and that he should decide how much it was worth. Her response implied he told her he’d make her pay.”

John’s startled gaze met his. “You think our killer believes Miss Walker is trying to blackmail him?”

He nodded. “I believe she’s now his next target.”

His friend shook his head. “But you still can’t know for sure that the caller is the killer.”

“Would you prefer I turn the car around?”

John shifted in his seat. “No. Not if there’s a chance you’re correct.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Please. I’ve made far more complex deductions on less information.”

“Yes, well, do try not to be a complete arse when we see her. Your last conversation didn’t exactly endear her to you.”

He sighed. “You forget, John.”

“What?”

Sherlock stepped on the gas pedal. “I don’t care.”

***

Sherlock turned on the wipers as rain began to patter against the windscreen. They were nearly there.

“If our killer is after her, what do you think he’ll do?” John asked.

“Judging by his past behavior, it would appear he doesn’t intend to kill anyone, but simply acquire his information. However, it’s difficult to determine how he will respond to Miss Walker’s implied threat. I need more data.”

He made a right onto Station Way then pulled into a dark alley. The Bentley was parked three cars down.

John undid his seatbelt and handed Sherlock his phone. “You didn’t need me to navigate, did you?”

“No, I memorized the directions off my mobile before handing it to you.”

Shaking his head, John gestured to the boot. “Unlock it for me, will you?”

John unzipped his bag. The boot’s interior light glinted off the dark metal of his British Army Sig Sauer L106A1. John slid the gun into the inside lower pocket of his shooting jacket, then grinned at him. “Could be dangerous.”

Sherlock smiled. “We can hope.”

The back door to the club was locked, so they headed around to the front. Lamps shaped like fiery swords framed the entrance to Eden. Two burly bouncers wore tailored suits the color of burnished gold. One man opened the door for a group of flashily dressed women and the white embroidered wings on the back of his jacket glinted in the flickering light.

Sherlock caught John’s shoulder. “Give me a moment,” he murmured. “I need to figure out a way to get us inside. Pretend to make a phone call so we don’t look like we’re loitering.”

John pulled out his mobile, pushed a few buttons, and began speaking into his phone about work. He paced up and down the sidewalk. Sherlock took the opportunity to study the two bouncers.

One was short and muscled, his suit jacket taut across the shoulders. The other guard was tall and lean. His hair was buzzed short and he stood with his feet at shoulder’s width apart, posture stiff. He took a long drag of his cigarette, then exhaled, blowing the smoke into the other bouncer’s face. The short man cursed and shoved his partner, but the smoker just threw back his head and laughed. The light from one of the lamps shone on the taller man’s neck, revealing a tattoo of a knight fighting a dragon. Well, this was going to be interesting.

Sherlock motioned to John to wrap it up and his friend ended the false call.

“So?” John asked.

“The smoker is a military man. It’s up to you to get us in.”

John shot a glance at the bouncer, then smiled. “I’ve got this.”

Suddenly, his friend faded away, and Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers surfaced. John’s posture straightened and his chin lifted. His brown eyes, usually full of empathy and humor, hardened. An aura of authority found only in men of military rank radiated from him. “It would be best if you avoid speaking.”

Sherlock nodded.

The two guards eyed them as they approached and Sherlock took care to remain a step behind his friend. The short bouncer folded his arms in a poor attempt to appear more intimidating, clearly uncomfortable with Sherlock’s four-inch advantage.

The smoker stubbed out his cigarette and lit another one. The flame of his lighter emphasized numerous raised scars on his knuckles. Sherlock wouldn’t get anywhere by showing them the police badge he’d nicked from Lestrade and there wasn’t enough money to buy their way inside. It was up to John.

His friend nodded sharply at the lean bouncer. “Good evening, Tommy. How goes the battle?”

The cigarette fell out of the guard’s gaping mouth onto the concrete. “Lieutenant Marcus Doyle, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers,” he said, saluting John.

“Captain John Watson,” he replied, saluting smartly in return. “At ease, soldier.”

Lt. Doyle shifted his arms behind his back.

John cocked his head to the side as he examined the man in front of him. “I don’t recall seeing you before, Lieutenant. When did you join?”

The man stared straight ahead. “Five years ago, sir.”

Ah, so he wouldn’t have had contact with John, as his friend had been medically retired before then.

Lt. Doyle cleared his throat. “I’ve heard of you, sir. You saved Sergeant Anthony Phillips. He’s a good friend of mine.”

John’s eyebrows shot up. “How is Sergeant Phillips?”

The man grinned. “He’s doing well, sir. Just had a little girl. He still talks about how you turned him into a human ice lolly.”

Sherlock cast John a sideways a glance. He hadn’t heard this particular story before.

John smiled at Doyle. “I promise it wasn’t my usual treatment practice. I’m just relieved he’s recovered well. This is an interesting gig you’ve got for yourself.”

“Yes, sir. I’m on reserve now and this is the best way for me to pay the bills.”

“I see. Well, my friend and I were in the area and we’ve heard some interesting stories about this place. Is there really a man dressed like a serpent?”

The soldier nodded. “His name is Tony, not Lucifer, just so you know.” He gestured at the door. “Would you like to go inside to see for yourself, sir?”

John waved a hand at his clothing. “I’m afraid I’m rather under-dressed for this type of club, Lieutenant.”

Doyle grinned. “Forgive me, sir, but you’re a Captain. As far as I’m concerned, you can dress as you damn well please.”

The guard held the door open for them and Sherlock wasn’t sure whether his friend’s expression of surprised delight was feigned or not.

“Enjoy your evening, sir.”

John gave the guard a final salute and headed inside the club. Sherlock followed.

Raucous music, flashing lights, and the sharp, musky sweat of undulating bodies were thankfully missing from this particular venue. Sherlock could count on one hand the number of times he’d been to a nightclub and those had largely been in the seedier parts of London.

This wasn’t one of those places.

Sparkling gold lights crept like vines up the sides of the walls. The concrete floor was painted an earthy brown to match the plush lounge seating. Men and women crowded around a green marble bar, drinking out of apple-red glasses. A glowing door on the far side of the room opened and a techno beat momentarily filled the air.

The place was packed.

“We should split up,” he said. “You take this room and I’ll take the other. We’ll meet back here once we find Miss Walker.”

John frowned. “What do we do when we find her?”

“Whatever it takes to get her out of here.” He left John to his search and swept through the glowing double doors.

Asher hadn’t been joking about the apple tree. It burst out of the ground in one corner of the room, its leafy green branches covered with twinkling fairy lights and laden with lush looking apples. A tipsy woman plucked a low hanging fruit and bit into it. Juice dribbled down her chin.

Curved private booths with candle-lit tables encircled the sunken dance floor. Despite the thumping bass of the speakers, those on the outskirts of the floor were able to converse easily. Whoever was in charge of the acoustics was a genius. Sherlock would know. It took one to know one.

His height gave him an advantage as he gazed down on the crowd of dancers. Unable to spot Miss Walker, he decided to check the private booths. Before he even made it halfway across the room, he declined three requests to dance, two offers of drink, and the amorous attentions of a particularly persistent woman with surgically enhanced breasts.

Then he saw her. She was leaning back against a glittering support beam watching the dancers. Odd to see her not wearing her usual business suit. Instead, she wore trainers, loose fitting black pants, and a fitted zippered hoodie. Her shoulder length hair was pulled back in a ponytail. It looked like she was ready to go for a run, rather than attend a fancy night club. He slipped around a gaggle of giggling young women and approached her.

“Sorry to interrupt, but it’s time to leave.”

A lazy smile spread across her face. “Oh, hello there.”

He frowned. “We need to go.”

She raised her arms above her head and stretched, back arching. “Would you like to dance?”

That caught his attention. While he wasn’t as capable as John at understanding the irrational minds of women, even Sherlock knew it was beyond odd for Miss Walker to go from wanting to throttle him to asking him to dance in a few hours time. He caught her chin and lifted her face toward the light.

Her pupils were tiny as pins, the green irises glassy.

“What did you take?” he asked, tightening his grip. She shoved him away, her temper surfacing despite the effects of whatever drug she’d been given.

A man dressed in a snake-skin suit slunk his way over. “Is this man bothering you?”

Miss Walker’s lower lip pouted. “He won’t dance with me.”

The slick-haired man stared at Sherlock in disbelief, his iridescent yellow contacts gleaming. He slipped a hand around her waist. “I’ll dance with you, love.”

Irritation flared. “That won’t be necessary, Tony,” he said, offering Miss Walker his arm. To his great surprise, she took it, stumbling forward to stand beside him.

The serpentine man sighed. “What a shame. Your soul would have been so sweet, my dear.”

Miss Walker shook her head, almost losing her balance. “I’ve already sold my soul to the devil.”

Pointed incisors caught the light as Tony grinned at him. “Lucky man.”

A woman in a slinky red dress dragged Tony onto the dance floor. Miss Walker moved to follow, but Sherlock caught her arm. “We’re getting out of here.”

She stamped her foot like a three-year old having a temper tantrum. “No. Not until after I dance.”

Sherlock scowled down at her. “Don’t be ridiculous. You can hardly stand.”

She glowered back at him. “Then I’m staying.”

He gritted his teeth. He’d prefer to throw her over his shoulder and carry her out, but she’d likely scream like a banshee and draw unwanted attention. A glowing green exit sign on the other side of the dance floor caught his eye. It was the door he and John had tried to open from the alleyway. He calculated the distance across the floor. He’d likely have more difficulty leading her back the way they’d come in. Once they got outside, he could call John on his mobile.

“Fine.” Sherlock tugged her towards the crowd of dancers. She followed behind, practically tripping down the stairs.

Some rubbish song about kissing an extraterrestrial blared through the speakers, the heavy hitting bass reverberating inside his chest. The sight of drunken men and women writhing together made his lip curl.

So, Miss Walker wanted to dance, did she? Oh he’d dance with her all right, but she’d do it his way or not at all.

Assessing the beat of the music, he considered salsa, but dismissed the idea as he’d need more control over her loose frame. Folding his left hand around her right, he pulled her close, placing his other hand firmly on her lower back. Her left hand came to rest on his shoulder, fingers gripping the rough wool of his coat. He exhaled and settled into his center of balance.

It was time to tango.

Normally, their stances would be offset to avoid the bumping of knees and toes, however in her drugged state, it was unlikely Miss Walker could perform even a basic tango step on her own. He expected her to resist as he nudged his left leg against her right, but she surprised him for the second time that evening by allowing him to take the lead. Tapping the side of her foot with his own, he closed her stance, then repeated the pattern.

Guiding her back towards the exit, he pivoted, shielding her from a lumbering fool. She stumbled and leaned heavily against him, her hair brushing against his face. The sweet scent of lavender and vanilla teased his nose. It took him a few seconds to realize it was her perfume.

A number of dancers stopped to watch their progress, while a few even shoved others out of the way to give them more space. The door was nearly within reach, but Sherlock couldn’t resist the opportunity to show off. Lifting her right knee with his left hand, he brought her lower leg around the back of his thigh. Catching her hand back in his, he spun them once, twice, then thrice, quickly traveling the remaining distance to the door. He dipped her deeply and her back arched in a near perfect bow. He swept her back in close and she laughed breathlessly up at him in open delight. He found himself reluctantly amused and an answering smile tugged at his mouth. The sound of applause briefly overwhelmed the music as the song faded into a new one. Sherlock nodded to the appreciative crowd, then pulled Miss Walker out the door and into the alley.

He released her and she leaned up against the Bentley, still laughing. He fished his mobile out of his pocket and dialed John’s number. Instead of staying put, she swayed into the middle of the road, giggling as she spun in a poor excuse for a circle. John didn’t answer immediately, so he redialed.

The roar of an engine cut through the air. A sedan with unlit headlights shot forward, headed straight for Miss Walker.

Sherlock dropped his phone and lunged.


	8. Chapter 8

John stood on the upper edge of the dance floor gaping like a fool.

Sherlock Holmes had just bloody tangoed Miss Walker out the door. His mobile vibrated in his pocket, but he was too gobsmacked to pay it any mind. 

A curvaceous woman in a low-cut purple dress sashayed over to him. “You look like you could use one of these, love.” She offered him a shiny, red fruit.

He could use a nibble for the road, but he doubted it was an average apple. It was likely injected with alcohol, and he needed all his wits about him, addled as they were. “You’re very kind, but I have to leave. Enjoy your evening.”

He headed out Eden’s back door and into chaos. 

A car raced down the alleyway straight for Miss Walker. Sherlock darted forward, faster than John had ever seen him sprint, and tackled her out of the way. The sedan’s tires squealed as it took the corner at a dangerous speed. It disappeared into the night.

John’s heart pounded, and he ran towards the bodies crumpled beside the dumpster. “Sherlock! Are you all right?”

His friend rolled off Miss Walker Walker and crouched beside her still form. “I’m not the one you need to be asking.” He removed a torch from his inside coat pocket and shone the light on her pale face.

John placed two fingers against the side of her neck, automatically locating her carotid artery. He exhaled when he detected a pulse. Glancing at his watch, he determined the rate to be a slow fifty beats per minute. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, but steady breaths.

John lightly slapped her dirty cheek. “Miss Walker. Can you hear me?”

Her eyes fluttered open, and she blinked drowsily up at him. “I need to sleep."

Her heavy lids fell shut. Not only had her words been slurred, but her pupils had appeared overly constricted in the torchlight.

John's mouth fell open. “She’s been drugged."

“While I agree she’s under the influence, we don’t have all the evidence.” Sherlock searched her pockets. “The correct question is, what drug and why.”

Sherlock produced her mobile, the keys to the Bentley, and a coin purse. Opening the small zippered bag, he dumped the contents onto Miss Walker’s stomach. There wasn’t much, just her identification, a few bank cards, and an empty money clip.

“You’re not suggesting she drove all the way here to do drugs, are you?”

“Not everyone’s a boy-scout like you.”

He shook his head. While his life experience had shown him the depravity of man, John still tried to see the best in people. A person was innocent until proven guilty. Sherlock had the exact opposite attitude. Everyone was guilty of something. His trust had to be earned. It was never freely given.

John tilted Miss Walker’s head to the side and ran a hand across the back of her skull. He was unsurprised to find his fingers stained with blood. Sherlock had slammed into the woman at full speed, and the road was hardly a forgiving surface. “Did you really have to use her to break your fall?”

Sherlock shot him an annoyed look. “I was too busy saving her life. Can we move her?”

“Yes. I believe the drug is the reason for her lethargic state rather than the bump on her head, but we’d best be careful. There are no signs of concussion or broken bones, though I suggest we take her to the nearest hospital to be safe.”

Sherlock slid his arms beneath Miss Walker and lifted her. John was reminded of the time his friend had straightened out their fireplace poker after a man had twisted it in a fit of rage. While a number of criminals could attest to the strength hidden within Sherlock’s slender frame, it struck John as odd to see him carrying an injured woman in his arms. Sherlock didn’t exactly fit the hero archetype.

Her head lolled backwards at an uncomfortable angle, and he winced.

“Would you mind opening the door?” Sherlock asked, walking towards the Bentley. “I’d prefer to get her inside before she bleeds on my coat.”

John scooped Miss Walker’s belongings off the ground and opened the back door. Sherlock laid her on the leather bench seat, naturally leaving him to get her comfortable. John removed his gun and pillowed his coat beneath her head. He then secured a seat-belt across her. One of her arms dangled off the seat, and a flash of gold glinted on her wrist in the overhead light. Pulling up her cuff, he discovered a cheap, gold bracelet shaped like a serpent. It coiled around her wrist.

“Sherlock, you’ll want to take a look at this.”

Giving his mobile a final polish, his friend leaned around the driver’s seat, gaze immediately zeroing in on the piece of jewelry. He slipped it off her wrist and lifted it towards the light. The gold scales glittered.

In one deft movement, Sherlock twisted off the serpent's head and let it fall to the floor. He peered into the hollow bracelet, and an unreadable expression flickered across his face, vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.

“What’s inside?” John asked.

“Forbidden fruit,” Sherlock replied, his tone grim. He tilted the bracelet, and round white tablets cascaded into his open palm.

John picked one up and examined it. His stomach lurched. “It’s morphine. One hundred milligrams.”

The muscles in Sherlock's jaw clenched tight, and he poured the pills back into their container. "Here." He shoved the bracelet into John’s hand.

John slipped it into the front pocket of his trousers. He intended to destroy it the first chance he got, not only to prevent Miss Walker from getting to it, but to protect his friend as well. Sherlock had been clean for years, but having temptation in such close proximity could very well lead the man down a destructive path. It would be a cold day in hell before John allowed that to happen.

Sherlock’s mobile pinged. “Someone’s just accessed the GPS for the Bentley.”

“What? How is that possible?”

A smile. “Our killer is clever, but not as clever as I am.” Sherlock removed a black box from beneath the Bentley’s dashboard, then waved down a passing taxi. Opening the back door to the cab, he leaned in, conversing with the driver. A moment later, the taxi drove off and Sherlock returned, a wide grin on his face. “By the time he figures out he isn’t tracking this car, we’ll be long gone.”

John caught the Jaguar's keys as they flew toward him. "Right. You want me to follow behind you?"

"No, I want you to transfer our bags into the Bentley.”

“Wait. Why can't we take both cars?”

“We can, as long as you don’t mind Miss Walker choking on her own vomit during the drive.”

“She’s not going to vomit. There wasn’t any hint of alcohol on her breath." Regardless, Sherlock knew he couldn’t bring himself to take the risk. John stomped over to the car and retrieved their luggage. Of course, it was probably better this way. Sherlock was no nursemaid. The last time John had gotten sick, Sherlock quarantined the flat and abandoned him to sleep at the lab. God forbid the sniffles come between Sherlock and his work.

Giving up on ever driving again, John settled onto the bench seat next to Miss Walker and checked her vitals. Her heart rate had improved. He rested his hand lightly upon her clavicle to monitor her breathing.

Sherlock turned off the main road and headed east. The nearest hospital was in the opposite direction. “Hang on. Where are we going?”

“We’re going to my family’s country estate. It’s not far from here.”

“This woman needs medical care, not a visit to the countryside!”

Sherlock’s smirk reflected back at him in the rear-view mirror. “I happen to know a doctor. He’s very good.”

John shook his head. “No. Absolutely not. She’s not my patient, Sherlock.”

“She is now.”

“Give me one good reason.”

“I can give you three. In case you haven’t noticed, someone is trying to kill her. Two, she’s under the influence of morphine, making her even more vulnerable to attack. Three, I doubt her chances of survival will be improved if she’s shoved off at hospital. Our killer just accessed our GPS, it would be child’s play for him to obtain hospital records and thus acquire her location.”

John sighed and stared out the window as the silhouettes of the city buildings gave way to dark rolling hills. They drove in silence for a while. The Bentley took the curves of the road with ease.

“Maybe our killer planted the drugs on her,” John said.

“That’s one possibility. He entered the club, somehow drugged Miss Walker without getting her to drink anything, slipped the bracelet on her wrist, then waited to run her over outside. Evidence would show she was under the influence, and the driver could claim she walked out in front of his vehicle, sparing him any blame. While I applaud your vivid imagination, John, I believe Occam’s Razor applies in this particular situation.”

“What do you mean?”

“I prefer theories which make the fewest unwarranted assumptions about available data. Also, while you were examining Miss Walker, I noticed the money clip in her bag was bent. She had an overly thick roll of notes at one point. Until I know more, I’m going to operate under the assumption she willingly purchased and took the drugs.”

John had experienced his share of trauma, pain, and loneliness, but he had a difficult time understanding why anyone would risk becoming dependent on a substance, no matter the euphoric result. As a doctor, he was all too aware of the consequences drugs had on the body and the brain. Then again, Sherlock was brilliant and still had fallen victim to addiction.

"Why do you think she’s abusing?” he asked at last.

Sherlock’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. “I intend to find out. In fact, I have a number of questions for Miss Walker once she awakens. Do you know how long she’ll be?”

John shook his head. “It’s difficult to determine without knowing the exact dosage. Judging by her lack of responsiveness, I’d say she’ll sleep through the night. By the way, why did you tango her out the back door?"

The car jerked as Sherlock took too sharp a turn. "She refused to leave unless I danced with her. It was the most efficient route."

John grinned. Right, because dancing was so much faster. Maybe Sherlock was going to pirouette down the streets after criminals now. "I didn’t know you could dance.”

"Mother had both Mycroft and I learn, though I haven’t danced in years."

"You looked like you were enjoying yourself."

"It was only a means to an end."

"Whatever you say, twinkle toes."

Sherlock stepped on the gas, accelerating way beyond the posted speed limit. For once, John didn’t care. It was worth it. He only wished he’d managed to snap a photo or video footage of Sherlock tangoing. Lestrade would have laughed his arse off.

They drove up a dark road, lit only by the stars and a silvery moon peeking through the clouds. A two-story manor loomed ahead.

Sherlock pulled up to the house, and the headlights shone on red brick walls and blue-shuttered windows. “Welcome to  _Brackenwood_.”


	9. Chapter 9

John pressed his face against the window and stared at the large house. He sometimes forgot Sherlock came from a wealthy family. Sherlock refused to touch his inheritance, though he’d never said why. Perhaps he wanted to succeed on his own or refused the money out of spite. God knew Sherlock and his brother didn’t exactly have the best relationship.

“It’s big,” he said.

“Is it? My father had it built for my mother.”

“That’s nice.” Maybe Sherlock’s family wasn’t as dysfunctional as he’d thought.

“He chose this area due to the dense overgrowth of poisonous ferns.”

“Right.” Never mind then. “We should get Miss Walker inside.”

Sherlock turned the engine off and looked over his shoulder at him. “I’ll need to input the security code first. We don’t want to alarm Mycroft, although it’s a good chance he already knows we’re here.”

Leaving the slumbering woman in the car, John followed Sherlock to the front door. Built into the metal handle was a keypad with a blinking red light.

Sherlock stared at it for a long moment.

“Don’t you know the code?” John asked.

“No.  _Brackenwood_  has become Mycroft’s little vacation home. He’d choke on his cake if he knew we were here. I just need a minute to figure it out.”

The tune ‘God Save the Queen’ filled the air.

Great. They were buggered. John half expected lasers or gouts of flame to shoot from the front door.

Sherlock answered his mobile. “Hello, brother dear. Yes, John and I thought it would be fun to take a trip to the countryside. Get some fresh air, enjoy the scenery, perhaps investigate a mysterious death, the usual. Yes, there’s a woman passed out in the car.”

John’s mouth fell open. His gaze darted from the doorway to the dark interior of the parked Bentley. How on earth? He looked up at the side of the building, but noticed nothing out of the ordinary. If there were high-tech cameras anywhere, they were well-hidden.

Sherlock shook his head, eyes rolling upwards. “Yes, she’s involved with the case, but I assure you she won’t be any trouble. No, we won’t ruin your antique furniture or the carpet. Now, may I have the code?”

There was a pause, then Sherlock snickered. “How very patriotic of you.” He hung up.

Sherlock entered '1837' and the light switched from red to green. A clunking sound indicated a heavy deadbolt had slid free. The door swung open and lights came on revealing an entryway with soft, white carpet.

“What’s so funny about 1837?” John asked.

“It’s the year Queen Victoria ascended the throne and moved into Buckingham Palace.”

John chuckled. “He really is the Queen, isn’t he?”

“Perhaps I’ll send him a glittery pink tiara for Christmas.”

“And I’ll get him ‘Pretty Pretty Princess’. Harriet used to love playing that game when we were kids.”

Sherlock grinned. “Excellent. We’ll just need to figure out a way to sneak the package past his government minions.”

Instead of going around to the back of the car, Sherlock popped open the bonnet of the Bentley. He handed John his lit torch. “Hold this.”

John complied, pointing the beam of light at the engine. Sherlock disconnected the battery from the vehicle and lifted it out. He hid it beneath the back seat of the car.

“What are you doing that for?”

“Better safe than sorry.”

“What do you mean?”

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. “Just consider it an added precaution.”

An added precaution for what? Judging by the flickering lights in the distance, the nearest neighbor was over a mile away. John couldn’t imagine anyone would try to steal the car.

Sherlock opened the Bentley’s door then lifted Miss Walker into his arms. John hurried forward and grabbed his jacket before it could slide off the seat and onto the wet ground. He retrieved their luggage and followed Sherlock into the house.

The lights automatically flickered on as they walked inside. Sherlock halted inside a quintessential English sitting room, complete with yellow flocked wallpaper, an oriental rug, and an oak engraved fireplace. The mantel was cluttered with china figurines, mainly Staffordshire dogs. A glass topped Chinese chest served as a coffee table.

Sherlock set Ms. Walker onto a cushy white sofa. Of course, it had to be white. Sacrificing his jacket once again, John draped it over a pillow and placed it beneath Miss Walker's head.

He grimaced at the grimy state of his hands. “Where’s the loo?”

Sherlock nodded towards the hallway. “Go back the way we came, head past the staircase, and turn right.”

John followed the instructions and quickly found it. He scrubbed his blood-stained hands beneath the piping hot water, then toweled them dry. A row of black and white photos of solemn looking government officials decorated the wall above the toilet. Creepy. Maybe it helped Mycroft wee or something. John didn’t want to think about it. Popping open the bracelet, he dumped the pills into the toilet and flushed the drugs, then tossed the cheap piece of jewelry into the bin.

Back in the sitting room, John found Sherlock pacing in front of the fireplace, mobile against his ear.

“Yes, everything is fine, Giles. You’ll want to send someone to Eden to pick up the Jag. I’m sure Asher would be more than happy to help.”

John retrieved his medical kit and set it on the Chinese chest. He pulled one of the heavy white chairs over to the sofa, careful not to catch the legs of the antique on the expensive area rug. It was so much easier at 221B where everything was cozy and worn. Sherlock spilled sticky concoctions onto the floor and furniture all the time. John could put his feet up on the coffee table and not worry about dinging it up. It was home. This place was too clean, too cold, too remote. Rather like Mycroft.

“I’ll keep you updated on the progress we make with the case.” Sherlock ended the call.

He frowned. “Did you tell him she was drugged?”

Sherlock shook his head. “The fewer people who know, the better. Besides, the old man would only worry needlessly.”

His eyebrows rose. “Kind of you to consider his feelings.”

Sherlock cast a sideways glance at him. “I’d prefer not to be inundated by incessant calls from him regarding her welfare.”

“Right. That would be terribly inconvenient,” John said, his tone dry.

“So glad we agree.”

John smiled.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

His smile widened. “I believe it’s high time you made yourself useful. Since you’ve been so kind as to give me a patient, you’re going to be my assistant.”

“No.”

“Oh yes. If you refuse, I’m going to call Mrs. Hudson right now and tell her you’ve been using the vacant flat below us for experiments. I bet she’ll charge you extra rent and bin the whole disgusting mess you’ve left down there. Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”

Surprise flickered across Sherlock’s face, quickly replaced by indignation. “I’ve been working on that for months. It’s important to science, John. And it could prove a man’s innocence."

“Oh, really?” He couldn’t fathom how bisected pig intestines held any hope for refuting criminal charges.

“You’d be ruining a man’s chance at freedom.”

“Well, I suggest you hop to then.”

Sherlock glowered.

“You’re more than welcome to test me on this.” He pulled out his mobile and raised his eyebrows.

For a moment, John thought Sherlock was going to try and swipe the phone from him. Instead, his friend's face contorted into the sourest expression he’d ever seen. “Fine. I’ll be your bloody assistant.”

John slid his phone back into his pocket. “So glad we agree. Please get me a bowl of warm soapy water, two wash cloths, and a small plate.”

Sherlock stomped down the hall like a four-year old having a hissy fit.

John chuckled. It was a rare moment indeed when he got the best of Sherlock Holmes. While his friend’s antics were entertaining, baffling, and oftentimes appalling, it was healthy for Sherlock to realize he couldn’t always have his way. John had a slow fuse and the patience of saint, but he wasn’t a walking doormat.

Sherlock returned with the requested items and set them on the coffee table. “Is there anything else you require?”

“Yes, thank you for asking. I need more light so I can give my patient a thorough examination.”

Sherlock left the room and came back with a standing lamp. “Will there be anything else?”

John rolled his eyes. “Oh just sit down and busy yourself with your mobile.”

Instead, Sherlock sat down on the coffee table and leaned forward to watch him work. If his friend thought he’d be perturbed by an audience, he’d be sorely disappointed. Popping open his medical kit, John slipped on a pair of nitrile gloves. After easing Miss Walker’s head to the side, he parted the hair surrounding the wound.

“It’s fortunate she had her hair styled in this fashion,” Sherlock said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Her pony tail absorbed the initial impact. She only acquired damage when her head recoiled on its second bounce against the road.”

“Yes, well, the style is no longer helping.” The way it was pulled back, combined with the coagulated blood and dirt made it difficult for him to get a clear view of the injury. Her thick red hair would no doubt fall all over the place if he were to remove the band holding it, but there was no other option. He removed the tie, and her vibrant hair spilled over her face and across his hands.

Another pair of blue-gloved hands came into view. Sherlock brushed her hair out of the way and held the tendrils firmly in place. John glanced at his friend, but Sherlock’s face was impassive.

John dipped one of the wash cloths into the bowl of water and wrung it out. He dabbed it gently against the wound, and the cloth came away scarlet. He cleansed the site a second time and finally got a clear view of the injury. It was located behind her left ear. The angry scrape was embedded with tiny gravel and unnamable debris. An alleyway wasn’t the best place to suffer a laceration. He hoped she was up to date on her immunizations. Using a pair of tweezers, John dug out the small pieces caught in her skin and dropped them onto the waiting plate. The tiny bits pinged as they landed on the fine china.

Sherlock gazed down at the dish, eyes alight with interest. “Let’s see. We’ve got a shard of glass from a beer bottle. Guinness, judging by the shade. A scrap from a lottery card.” His tone brightened. “Oh look, tobacco ash.”

Sherlock poked at the tiny remnant. “ _Lambert and Butler_. Unfiltered. Average nicotine, not harsh on the throat, moderate burn. It holds position one hundred and forty-three in my tobacco ash study.”

“Wonderful. Now can you please go back to holding her hair out of the way? I need to disinfect the wound.”

Sherlock resumed his earlier position, allowing John to apply antibacterial ointment. It actually wasn’t as bad as he’d expected. It had been difficult to tell in the dark alleyway as head wounds tended to bleed profusely.

Picking up another cloth, John dampened it and wiped away the dirt on the side of her face. He could tell Miss Walker wasn’t enjoying restorative sleep as her eyes didn’t indicate a REM cycle. A frown pinched her face and John couldn’t help himself from massaging the furrow between her eyes. Water dripped from the cloth and landed below her lashes. He wiped it away and frowned. The cloth was now stained a pale fleshy tone.

Sherlock examined her skin. “She’s wearing heavy make-up. Theater grade, judging by the thickness. Skillfully applied.”

John ran the cloth over her face, cleansing it of all product. The result was disturbing. Dark circles, like purple bruises beneath her eyes. Lines of strain etched around her mouth. Her cheekbones were sharp, skin stretched taut across her face. She looked ill.

“She hasn’t been sleeping or eating,” Sherlock said.

John sighed. “Morphine slows down the digestive tract and as a result can suppress appetite in some people.”

Sherlock stripped off his gloves and tossed them onto the coffee table. Instead of leaving him to clean up the mess as John expected, Sherlock bent forward and rubbed the ends of Miss Walker’s hair between his bare fingertips. He repeated the odd action a second time, this time allowing the silky locks to slide across the palm of his hand.

“Are you going to braid her hair now?”

Sherlock frowned at him. “She’s got extensions, but it’s only in this one area and nowhere else.” He tugged on a portion of hair which led to the back of her skull.

John examined the hair on the back of her head, and sure enough, expertly tied extensions were attached to much shorter pieces of hair. “These must be expensive. I couldn’t even tell the difference.”

“You wouldn’t. You don’t care about hair.”

“And you care a bit too much.” His amusement died as he moved the synthetic hair out of the way. Puckered scar tissue the size of the palm of his hand marred the back of her skull. “She’s already been injured.”

“That doesn’t look like a surgical scar.”

“It isn’t, though it’s clear she received medical care. See how the area was shaved? Judging by the faint markings here, the sutures were removed only a few months ago. This can’t be older than six months.”

“My experience with head injuries is only limited to corpses. What do you think happened?”

John tore off his gloves and ran a hand through his short hair. “It’s definitely a result of some kind of violent trauma. A car accident perhaps.”

“What else?”

A rushing sound filled John's ears and an oppressive heat seared into his skin. Lifeless eyes stared back at him. His hands were slick with the blood of a soldier he couldn’t save. He bit the inside of his mouth to bring himself back to the present and shoved the memory aside.

He met Sherlock’s questioning gaze. “She could have been shot.”


	10. Chapter 10

John’s words still echoed in the back of Sherlock’s mind the next morning. Had Miss Walker been shot?

He hoped so. It was far less boring than a car accident.

He and John had taken turns watching her through the night. She had tossed about in a fitful sleep, muttering incoherently, restless hands twitching. Though he’d had hours to study her, he'd only come away with more questions.

Miss Walker was a puzzle, one he intended to solve.

He exited his room, hair still damp from the shower, and entered the middle guest room. It was just after dawn, and pale, yellow sunshine filtered through the window, the light falling across her still form stretched out across the bed. She was twisted up in a green blanket, and one black-sock-covered foot hung off the side of the mattress. John sat next to a roll-top desk holding a steaming cup of tea and staring out at the pink and gold clouds.

“How is she?” Sherlock asked, taking a seat in the bedside chair.

John yawned. “She settled down about ten minutes ago. Perhaps she’ll sleep better now.”

“Doubtful.”

“Why do you say that?”

His mouth quirked. “Because our guest is awake.”

John shot him an incredulous look. “But she hasn’t even stirred.”

“Precisely. Don’t tell me you didn’t learn anything from watching her thrash about half the night.”

“I wasn’t in a learning frame of mind, Sherlock. I was bloody trying not to fall asleep.”

He shook his head at the feeble excuse. “Come now, Miss Walker. I know you’re faking, even if he doesn’t.”

The steady, rhythmic sound of her breathing hitched. Green eyes snapped open, peering at him through a tangle of dirty red hair. “What am I doing here?”

“Besides not sleeping and generally making a nuisance of yourself? Not much. Tell me what you recall from last night."

She eased into a sitting position, leaning back against the antique brass bed frame. A frown settled on her face. “Everything is a bit fuzzy.”

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at John. His friend nodded. So, it wasn’t out of the question for her memory to have been affected following consumption of the morphine. However, the events leading up to her taking the drug shouldn’t have been impacted. “Surely you recall driving to Eden.”

“I do." She tucked the blanket more comfortably around herself.

His mouth curved. She wasn’t going to make it easy for him. Excellent. He would have been disappointed otherwise. “What were you doing at the night club?”

“None of your business.” She brushed her hair behind one ear and winced as her fingers came into contact with the bandage.

John cleared his throat. “How’s your head?”

Her brows drew together. “Sore. What happened?”

“I saved your life,” Sherlock said. “Someone attempted to run you over in the alley behind the club. I shoved you out of the way. You’re welcome.”

Her gaze darted to John, who nodded in confirmation. Interesting. She trusted the doctor, but not him. Smart.

Her hand worried up and down her right wrist. “Where’s my bracelet?”

John glanced sideways at him, his lips pursed.

Sherlock frowned. The look on John's face was reminiscent of the time he'd come home and found his sock index disturbed. John had felt the need to check his things for drug paraphernalia. Sherlock hadn't been using, but if he had, he wouldn't have hidden it there. But why was John giving him that look now? Self-righteousness, but with a dash of guilt.

It hit him then. and he bit back a groan. He’d told John to take the drug-filled piece of jewelry, not destroy it.

He stood. “It’s downstairs. We’ll be back with your belongings and a cup of tea for you, in just a moment.”

She stared at him warily, but relaxed when John sent her a reassuring smile.

“One sugar, right?” John asked.

“Yes, please.”

John nodded and they headed out the door and downstairs.

His friend rounded on him in the hallway. “What exactly is the plan, Sherlock?”

He scowled, shoving past John and into the kitchen. “I had a perfectly decent plan until you botched it. You got rid of the drugs, didn’t you?”

John stomped after him. “Of course I did. I flushed them and binned the bracelet in the bathroom. What did you expect me to do?”

Sherlock jerked the cupboard door open. “I told you to hold onto it, not throw it away. Must I spell out everything for you?”

“Why on earth would we need to keep the morphine?”

Sherlock threw a hand up, nearly dropping the mug he’d retrieved. “To prevent her from going through withdrawals, of course.”

John gaped at him. “You planned on me administering illegal drugs to her?”

He shrugged as he turned on the electric kettle. “I don’t see the problem.”

“I made an oath as a doctor to do no harm. Supporting an addict is harmful. I could have my license revoked and get sent to prison.”

He rolled his eyes. “Who would report you? Me? Miss Walker? If you’re going to protest, at least have a valid argument.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “I can’t believe you thought I would agree. How could you even consider it?”

Sherlock poured the boiling water into the cup and dropped in a teabag. “My intention was to ensure our interactions with Miss Walker were less problematic, not more so. It's already going to be difficult enough to keep her here while at the same time track down our killer.”

The pitch of John’s voice rose. “You can’t drug someone out of convenience.”

“I doubt she would have minded.” He added a sugar cube to the brewing tea.

John folded his arms and glared. “I don’t care. I stand by my decision.”

He pasted a smile on his face. “You’ll have to, as we have no other option available. Judging by Miss Walker’s immediate concern regarding her bracelet, you’ll have a very ill patient on your hands quite shortly, Doctor Watson.”

Anger and indignation shifted to concern on John’s face. The man clearly hadn’t considered the consequences of destroying the pills. “I’m not an addiction expert. I don’t know the first thing about drug withdrawals.”

Bile rose in the back of Sherlock’s throat. “Fortunately, for you, I’ve got first hand experience.” He shoved the mug into John’s hand. “Give this to Miss Walker. Be charming. I need her distracted while I come up with a plan. When I come into the room, follow my lead.”

John looked like he wanted to protest, but took the tea, and left the kitchen.

Sherlock gripped the side of the marble counter top and resisted an irrational urge to take the car and leave. His muscles ached, though he knew the pain was phantom in nature. Addiction was a dark circle of hell, one he had no desire to revisit. The memories of his hideous ordeal remained fresh and raw as the day they’d occurred. He usually managed by shoving them into a deep recess of his Mind Palace, as deleting them was out of the question. Unfortunately, Miss Walker’s withdrawals would likely be too much for his inner demons to resist.

Torment lay ahead for both of them.

He shoved himself away from the counter and into action, walking across to the other side of the manor. Opening the closet door, he slipped the spare brass key to the shed off its hook. He swept out the French doors at the back of the house. An icy wind cut through the warmth of his Belstaff coat. The frost-coated grass crunched beneath his shoes as he passed by the pond. The glittering surface of the water rippled, distorting the reflection of the low hanging willows. Swaying reeds riddled its muddy banks.

The stone-hewn shed sat half-covered in overgrown wisteria. He recalled climbing to the top as a child and the ancient gardener, Jasper, yelling for him to get down. Sherlock unlocked the door and it swung open silently. The current property manager kept it well-oiled. An automatic LED turned on, a vast improvement from the grimy light bulb which used to dangle from the ceiling. Sherlock wove through the various landscaping equipment, eyes flitting past the riding lawn mower, chain saw, and a pair of hedge trimmers. He opened a dusty wooden box in the corner, and a sigh escaped his lips. Two small coils of braided nylon rope lay in the bottom. He placed one in each pocket of his coat. After locking the shed, he headed back across the lawn and into the manor.

His pace slowed as he ascended the stairs. John wasn’t going to like this new plan. In fact, his friend was going to hate it, but Sherlock couldn’t think of any other alternative. Miss Walker wasn’t about to remain here of her own free will, especially now that her morphine had been destroyed. Returning to  _Aria_  wasn’t an option either, as someone was intent on taking her life. Keeping her here was for the best, at least for the moment.

Sherlock slipped a hand into his pocket, fingers catching on the end of the rope. He frowned. The guest bedroom door was ajar. A groan sounded from within the room. Kicking the door open, he found John kneeling on the floor, clutching the back of his head. The teacup lay broken beside him, caramel liquid blossoming across the pale carpet.

A quick survey of the room confirmed what he already knew.

Miss Walker was gone.

"Are you all right?” Though judging by the stream of epithets coming from John’s mouth, he was fine.

“Oh, I’m smashing. Thanks for asking.” John drew his hand away and stared at the blood covering it. “She hit me.”

“I gathered.”

His friend groaned and slumped sideways against the wall. Brown eyes squinted up at him. “It’s odd.”

“What’s odd? That you were beaten by a woman?”

“No, you git. When I came upstairs, she was standing by the window. She asked me to put the tea on the nightstand for her, then she apologized. Before I could turn around and ask what for, she walloped me.”

Sherlock blinked. A polite assault. That was a first. “It was a brass candlestick, in case you were wondering." He waved a hand at the fireplace mantel. One of the matched pairs was missing.

It was rather like a live game of Cluedo: Miss Scarlet in the conservatory with the candlestick, although this time, Doctor Black wasn’t murdered, merely injured. “If you’re certain you’re going to survive, I intend to retrieve our wayward guest.”

John grunted.

Sherlock took that as an affirmative and descended the stairs two at a time. He’d noted Miss Walker’s trainers half-hidden beneath the blanket on the floor. Not having shoes would slow her down. She’d also left her black hoodie draped over a chair, preventing her from covering her eye-catching hair. Mistake number two.

Exiting the front door, he approached the Bentley, alert for any kind of movement. The driver’s side window was bashed in. Jagged bits of glass littered the leather seat and the grey cobblestones.

The candlestick was seeing quite a bit of use.

Keys dangled from the ignition. She’d found the extra set above the visor. Too bad for her the car battery had been removed. A splash of red caught his attention.

She’d cut herself.

Perhaps she’d had a tantrum when the car wouldn’t start or accidentally brushed her bare arm across the sharp edge of glass.

Tiny droplets of blood and bits of glass led him down the side of the driveway towards the main road. What was she doing? She didn’t have her mobile. She wouldn’t be able to hitch a ride as this rural area didn’t receive a lot of traffic.

His eyes narrowed. The blood trail ended in a muddy patch of ground. He crouched. There was an imprint of a heel and the tiniest impression of toes. He smiled. She’d removed her socks and wrapped them around her arm. Clever, except now her feet were completely bare.

Sherlock straightened and considered Miss Walker’s options. She had three. One, she could have backtracked to the house in search of a place to hide. Two, she could have continued down the road in hopes of catching a driver’s attention. Or three, she could have entered the woods with another plan in mind.

He positioned his feet parallel to the print and looked ahead. In the distance, a chimney poked above the tree tops. Option number three, then: Into the woods towards the nearest neighbor. Unfortunately for Miss Walker, Mr. Higgs and his wife went on holiday to Florida during the winter months. While they hired someone to maintain the property in their absence, he doubted anyone would be there at this time of day. It was also unlikely she could make it that far. It was almost three kilometers away. The pangs of withdrawal would likely be hounding her soon, not to mention her injured arm and head.

He entered the thick cove of trees, shoes immediately soaked by the water-logged grass from last night’s rainfall. At least his steps were muffled. Straining his ears for any odd sound, all he heard was the chirping of swallows and the wind rustling through the leaves.

What would she do next? She was armed, desperate, and resolved to escape. It both pleased and perturbed him that he didn’t know her well enough to predict her actions.

Something large burst out of the brush and hurtled towards him. Heart pounding, he dodged sideways and settled into a defensive stance. Frantic wings barely missed hitting him in the face. A pheasant. The bird shot over his shoulder and onto a low-hanging branch. Sherlock braced a hand against the peeling trunk of a nearby birch and let out a low chuckle.

Continuing through the woods, he noted sections of crushed grass and disturbed plants. He exited the trees, slowing as he approached the wood fence bordering Mr. Higgs’ property. A herd of brown cattle milled about in the clearing, tearing at the grassy pasture with blunt teeth. One curious cow stuck its head over the fence and snorted at him. Its warm breath left trails of steam in the chilly air. Sherlock bent down and examined the muddy ground.

There.

A perfect set of footprints showed where she’d landed after hopping the fence. Something tugged at his hair and he jerked back, a few strands breaking away from his scalp. He wiped the slobber from the side of his head and scowled at the big, stupid animal.

Two black hairs disappeared into its mouth.

“You’re disgusting."

Satisfied with its snack, the cow turned away and loudly broke wind. Sherlock vaulted over the fence and sped past the flatulent creature, however he wasn't quick enough to escape the noxious fumes. This was why he lived in the city. Corpses never smelled this bad. Darting around the herd, he cut across the clearing. The rusted weather vane squeaked as it spun above Mr. Higgs’ mammoth-sized red timber barn. He’d best check there first. The main doors were open to allow the cattle to come inside if the weather turned.

His soggy shoes squelched as he walked across the stone flooring. The interior was lost in shadows, the only light from the weak sunshine coming through the entryway. A wall divided the barn into two sections. This half was devoted to stalls, all of which appeared to be empty. An icy gust of wind funneled inside, causing one of the metal stall doors to swing shut with a resounding clang. If Miss Walker was somewhere within the building, she’d be on high alert now.

He opened the door leading into the other half of the barn. This side was better lit, as a grid of skylights spread across the ceiling. A towering wall of hay bales cut across half of the cavernous room. Large burlap bags of feed and a lone gas can filled one corner. His nose tickled in response to the sweet fragrance of hay combined with the sharp stench of cow which still somehow managed to find its way inside.

Sherlock walked around the wall, only to be greeted by more bales. They filled the room in oddly shaped mountains, rather like a Tetris game gone berserk. He frowned. While he wasn’t an expert on farming, the interior should have been arranged in a more orderly fashion. He couldn’t imagine Mr. Higgs tolerating such a mess.

A splatter of neon green paint and above it a splash of yellow marked the hay bales beside him. He smiled. Someone, in fact, many someones, had partaken in a rousing game of paint ball. The caretaker likely held an annual tournament while the Higgs were gone on holiday.

He wove through the mounds of straw and past a pile of assorted paint ball guns and masks. There was even an empty box which looked like it had held various types of gas and paint grenades. He paused as he caught sight of an old Ford lorry. The faded blue vehicle was backed up against the hay, its front facing the sliding door to the barn. The driver’s side door hung open.

He approached, but there was no one inside. A red metal toolbox, along with a hammer and screwdriver lay on the seat. The ignition switch had been pulled out of the dash and unplugged. Two wires protruded from the back of the plug, nestled next to a red wire with a yellow stripe.

His eyebrows rose. Miss Walker had hot-wired the lorry.

But why hadn’t she left? A wry smile twisted his mouth.

The fuel gauge needle was on empty. Tough luck. Today was not Miss Walker’s day.

Something rattled across the floor and lightly bounced off his foot. It looked like an unlabeled soda can.

Before he could kick it away, it exploded.


	11. Chapter 11

Purple plumes of smoke shot into Sherlock’s face, blinding him. 

She slammed into him seconds later, and he let her take him down, collapsing to the ground. His lack of resistance allowed him to take advantage of her forward momentum, and he threw her up and over him. She hit the stone floor and cried out. A loud metallic clanging told him she’d lost her grip on the brass candlestick. He jumped to his feet and headed in the direction of the sound. The smoke cleared just enough for him to see her disappear into the straw maze.

He gave chase, shoes slapping loudly against the ground. He noted his accelerated respiration, tensed muscles, narrowed vision, and most of all, the blood zinging through his veins. His mouth curved. 

This was fun.

He sprinted around a tight corner. The pathway split. He hesitated. There wasn’t any sign of her. He listened for any movement, but all he could hear was the heavy thrum of his heartbeat. A piece of straw fluttered down from above and tickled his cheek. 

It was his only warning.

He wrenched forward, just in time to avoid being crushed by an avalanche of hay bales. Laughing breathlessly, he climbed up the makeshift stairway after her. He popped up just below her, and she gasped. A bare foot kicked out at him. He ducked, felt the whoosh of displaced air just above his head. She scrambled away from him, climbing further up the bales.

This particular bale structure was shaped like a half pyramid, the side they were ascending riddled with easy-to-climb bales. The other side was a sheer drop of forty feet. The problem was that the further they went up, the more precarious the structure became. It began to wobble.

Before she reached the peak, the uppermost bale toppled over the side and fell to the ground with a heavy thud. She hesitated at the top, staring at a rectangular pile which stood across a seven-foot gap. He was an arm's length away from grabbing her foot, when she shot a determined glance at him over her shoulder. He lunged, but he was too late. 

She leapt forward and the bale beneath her feet gave way, altering her trajectory.

She wasn’t going to make it. 

Instead of a graceful arc, she flailed through the air. Her hands slapped against the top of the opposing structure, grasping for purchase in the straw.

Sherlock sprinted up the last few bales and jumped across the divide. The toes of his shoes caught the edge and he flung himself forward onto his knees. With a thunderous roar the entire half pyramid behind him collapsed, crumbling into the gap. The structure beneath him trembled. Dust and bits of straw filled the air.

Sherlock crawled over to the edge. She clung to the side with one arm, fingers clawed into the straw. She looked up at him, eyes wide. Her breath came in labored gasps.

He reached out. “Give me your hand.”

“No.”

He stared at her. Here she was, dangling precariously from a dangerous height and refusing his assistance. “You’ll fall if you don’t let me help you.”

She glanced at the mound of hay bales below her, then glared back up at him. “I might make that.”

He huffed out an incredulous breath. “It’s possible, though you’ll likely injure yourself. I don’t imagine you’ll be up for another round afterwards, do you?”

Sweat dripped into her eyes and down her face. Desperation had a way of fueling a human body beyond its breaking point. Had Miss Walker reached hers?

She swallowed, then lifted her bandaged arm from where it had hung limply at her side. He gripped her wrist and she winced. Likely sprained.

“When I grab your right arm, release the straw.”

She nodded.

He caught hold of her other arm. His fingers fought for purchase upon her perspiration-slicked skin. There was far too much sweat from simple exertion or desperation. 

Withdrawal. Nothing else caused the human body to overproduce fluids.

Not good.

His grip on her wrist broke free and she shrieked, now dangling by her right forearm.

Grasping her arm with both hands, he heaved her upwards. His shoulders burned with the effort. The straw had lacerated her skin, and blood ran down her arm to mingle with her sweat. It pooled between his hands. He dug his fingers into her flesh and lifted her another inch. Her skin slipped from his grasp. He lurched forwards and caught her hand. 

Her eyes met his and in that moment, they both knew she was going to fall.

Sherlock did the only thing he could to increase her odds of survival. He wrenched her sideways, so she was above the highest pile of bales.

He let go.

She plummeted to the ground without a sound and hit the tallest bale feet first, knees slightly bent. Her arms flew up to cradle her head as she tumbled sideways, rolling down the jumble of bales and out of sight. The woman knew how to take a fall.

He hurried down the back side of the structure and around the corner. Climbing over piles of bales, he caught sight of her, sprawled on her side. She wasn’t moving.

“Vivian!” He knelt beside her and touched the side of her grimy neck.

“I prefer Walker,” she mumbled, eyes closed.

He exhaled sharply and sat back on heels. John would have been upset if he’d killed her.

Unfocused green eyes slowly opened. “I told you I could make it.”

His mouth quirked. “Yes. Well done. Is anything broken?”

She sucked in a deep, halting breath. “My ribs are bruised, I think. Other than that, I’m fine.”

He shook his head. Adrenaline had a way of numbing the body’s pain receptors. John would need to examine her. Before she had a chance to recover from her stunned state, he removed the rope from his coat pocket and tied her feet together.

She craned her head to watch. “Do I really look like I’m in any shape to run away?”

“No, but I’m not taking any chances with you.” He’d underestimated her already.

Sherlock pulled the other section of rope out of his pocket and she offered both wrists to him. He smiled. “Nice try. Behind your back.”

She sat up with a groan and pivoted so he could reach her hands. She sucked in a sharp breath when he tightened the rope.

“John will take a look at your injuries when we get back.”

“Even after I hit him?”

“He takes his oath seriously.” Too seriously, in Sherlock’s opinion.

Her shoulders slumped, eyes falling closed. “He really did destroy it, didn’t he?”

“Yes.” She must have overheard part of their conversation in the kitchen then.

“Why can’t you just let me go? I haven’t done anything.”

Sherlock studied her. “Did you kill Rebecca Frost?”

Her mouth fell open. “What? I thought she died of pneumonia.”

“Considering the inheritance, you have motive. I imagine supplying your fix can get expensive.”

She scowled. “I never even heard of the woman until last week, and I make plenty of money at my current place of employment, thank you. Believe me, I wish I never responded to that bloody inheritance summons.”

Sherlock considered her words and body language. She appeared to be telling the truth. Her recent shock and growing withdrawal symptoms would have made it even more difficult for her to lie to him.

“I believe you, but I still can’t allow you to leave.”

Her face twisted in irritation. “Why the hell not?”

Sherlock stood and attempted to dust off his straw-speckled coat. “It’s complicated. Now isn’t the time for discussion though. We need to head back.”

He lifted her into his arms and she gasped, her shoulders no doubt strained by the awkward position. 

This was the third time he’d carried her within a two day span. He hoped it wouldn’t become a habit.

His mobile rang a number of times as he picked his way around the hay bales towards the lorry. Her body suddenly went rigid and he paused. “What is it?”

She buried her face in the front of his coat. He frowned down at the top of her head, but continued walking. Perhaps she was in more pain-

Something caught on his right foot, and the world exploded in color. Pink paint splattered all over them. He grit his teeth. Of course. A leftover paint grenade attached to a trip wire. 

His coat. God. It was a mess.

Miss Walker looked up at him, smile faint. Paint dripped off his hair and onto her cheek. “It serves you right for kidnapping me.”

“You-” His jaw clenched. He could just drop her in a dark corner of the barn and leave her there. No one would know. He could tell John she got away.

The tiny spark of humor in her eyes disappeared along with her smile, almost as if she could read his thoughts. A fresh line of sweat ran from her temple and down her neck. She shivered and her face spasmed.

More symptoms of withdrawal. He let out a breath. He couldn’t leave her here, no matter how much she deserved it. Stupid John and his bloody moral compass. The man had infected him.

“You’re going to pay for my dry cleaning,” he said, glowering down at her.

“Put it on my tab,” she murmured.

Sherlock eased her inside the lorry.

“It’s empty,” she said.

“Not for long.” Sherlock backtracked his steps and fetched the petrol can half-hidden behind the feed bags. He emptied it into the tank, then slid open the barn door. Hopping into the driver’s seat, he touched the exposed wires together and the engine cranked over. He connected the second wire into the plug and the lorry started. He smiled.

“Where did you find the petrol?”

He drove out of the barn and down the road. “Next to the feedbags.”

She cursed and rested her head against the window.

He shot her a sideways glance. “You almost got away. That rarely happens with me.” It was true. The last invigorating chase he’d experienced was the previous year, involving an enraged acrobat intent on murdering his fellow circus performers. It had taken both him and John to catch the high-flying maniac.

“‘Almost’ only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades." She sighed as they pulled up in front of the manor.

“True." He exited the lorry just as the front door to the house flew open.

“Why didn't you pick up your bloody phone?” John yelled. He halted, mouth agape.

Sherlock folded his arms, very much aware of his bedraggled state. “I was busy.”

“What the hell happened?”

“Retrieving Miss Walker was more difficult than expected.”

John followed him over to the passenger side door. "Is she alright?"

Sherlock hesitated. "She may have been injured in the retrieval process."

"Right." His friend shook his head. "Let's have a look then."

Slumped as she was against the door, John had to rush forward to prevent her from tumbling out of the seat and onto the ground. Shivers wracked her frame.

"Why do you have her tied up?" John asked.

"She threw a smoke grenade at me, tackled me, and nearly crushed me to death with hay bales."

John's eyebrows rose. "Well, I hardly think it's necessary at this point."

"Trust me. It's necessary."

John touched her shoulder. "Don't worry. You're going to be alright."

She jerked away from him and glared. "No, Doctor Watson. Thanks to you, I won't be."


	12. Chapter 12

John read through a British Medical Journal article on narcotic withdrawal syndrome and grimaced. There were six stages of withdrawal and they weren't pretty. In fact, they were downright horrible.

It had been two days since Sherlock had returned with Miss Walker. A sharp cry came from upstairs. His shoulders hunched. It wasn't his fault, not really. She was the addict. How could he have known she'd react this badly?

He nodded. He'd done the right thing. It would have been wrong to allow her to have the morphine, not to mention potentially dangerous for Sherlock. He sighed. Too bad the right thing made him feel like complete shite.

Footsteps clattered down the stairs, and Sherlock appeared in the doorway looking a bit worse for wear. Dark circles smudged the pale skin beneath his eyes. "It's your turn."

John looked at the clock. It was half past four. His turn wasn't supposed to start for another half hour.

Sherlock stalked past him and out the back door, slamming it behind him.

He frowned. Not only was it bloody cold out, but it was also pouring rain. Hardly the best time for a stroll. Sherlock hadn't even bothered to grab his coat. Of course, said coat was currently covered in pink paint. His friend would likely rather freeze to death than be caught wearing it in its current state. John put on his own jacket and followed after him.

Freezing rain stung his face, and he bit back a curse. It felt like icy needles driving into his skin. He turned the collar up on his black shooting jacket.

A dark silhouette stood beside the pond. Sherlock.

The green weeping willows, choppy grey water, and yellowing grass blurred together like paint running together across wet canvas.

"Lovely view," John said, as he came alongside his friend.

Sherlock stared off into the distance, unaware or uncaring of the downpour.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

John squinted at his friend's profile. Right. Judging by his clenched jawline and rigid posture, the man was just peachy.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Sherlock shot him a look he normally reserved for Anderson and people he found to be painfully stupid.

John's lips thinned. "You know, bottling everything up like you do isn't healthy."

"There's nothing for me to bottle up. Now kindly leave me in peace and go check on your patient."

He folded his arms. "Only if you come inside."

"No. I need some air."

"Sherlock, there's more water than air out here and there's perfectly decent, warm air inside the house." He caught his friend's arm. "Quit fooling around and come inside."

Sherlock jerked his arm away. "Leave. Me. Alone." Each word ground out between clenched teeth.

"But-"

"Please."

John rocked back on his heels. He could count on one hand the number of times Sherlock had said 'Please' and in none of them had the word been uttered in such a weary tone. It bothered him that his friend refused to confide in him, but he had to respect his choice. Although, considering it was Sherlock, perhaps he was unable to articulate his feelings, whatever they were.

"Fine. I'll just go inside and check on Miss Walker then." John walked back to the house, leaving Sherlock to battle his inner demons alone.

He hung up his coat and toweled his head dry, before heading upstairs. All too soon he reached Miss Walker's door.

He knew he wasn't going to like what he found inside, especially if Sherlock had been so affected. Despite the man's protests to the contrary, he knew his friend wasn't completely unfeeling. Sherlock was accustomed to dealing with cold corpses and a woman suffering through withdrawal was clearly outside his comfort zone. It was outside John's as well, but he had at least dealt with wounded soldiers when he'd been in the army. This particular case was a first in that he was partially responsible for his patient's current state.

He opened the door. The acrid stench of stale sweat wrinkled his nose. Miss Walker sat in a chair, wrists and feet bound by nylon rope to the antique's ornate wooden arms and legs. Her head hung low over a white basin perched on a side table to her right.

She retched. The painful sound caused his stomach muscles to involuntarily clench in sympathy. Her black shirt and trousers were soaked through, and her hair hung in limp tangles around her face.

A harsh sob tore out of her.

John had been wrong.

This was what complete shite felt like.

The door clicked shut, and she looked up. His heart twisted at the sight of her pale face, taut with pain. The only signs of color on her skin came from the angry red scratches across her arms and neck from her brawl in the barn.

He cleared his throat. "Can I get you anything?"

"Water," she rasped, nodding at the floor beside her chair. There was a damp circle on the carpet and an empty water glass on its side.

John headed into the bathroom and refilled it. He set it back on the side table and put a clean straw in it.

She sucked in a mouthful of water, nearly toppling the glass as she pulled greedily at the straw.

"Easy." He caught the glass before it could fall and slid the table closer, so it was now directly against the arm of the chair.

She sagged back into her seat. Beads of sweat dripped down her forehead and into her bloodshot eyes.

He winced. That had to burn. He went back into the bathroom, dampened a washcloth, and returned to her side. She flinched when the towel touched her skin, but remained still as he gently cleansed her face and neck. Gooseflesh broke out across her arms and she began to shiver.

John turned up the gas fireplace and took a seat in the chair across from her. "Would you like a blanket?"

She shook her head and took another sip of water. The simple task appeared to exhaust her, and her head drooped awkwardly over her right arm, limp hair falling forward to hide her face.

"Why are you doing this?"

The whispered question startled him. She'd barely spoken two words since they'd taken her from the lorry, and her episodes of raving delirium hadn't really counted as conversation. The medical journal had referred to it as 'yen sleep', a waking trance-like state often filled with hallucinations. John thought it more resembled night terrors.

"We're trying to protect you."

She responded with a weak laugh. Considering the situation from her perspective, he couldn't really blame her for her disbelief.

"Sherlock believes Rebecca Frost's murderer is now after you."

Her head slowly lifted to meet his gaze, green eyes lucid for the moment. "Why?"

John leaned forward. "Ms. Frost received multiple doses of anesthesia which ultimately led to her death. Sherlock thinks the killer was after something, either information or an important item. He believes the murderer is under the impression that you now possess it."

She stared at him. "Why me?"

"Because you've just inherited the Frost estate and Sherlock thought there was something odd about the phone call you took in the parlor at  _Aria_."

Her eyes fell shut, and her brow furrowed. "The caller was asking about a missing book."

"Did he say what kind of book?"

"No, but the caller was a woman, not a man. When I refused to cooperate, she told me I would pay." Miss Walker's head slumped back against the chair and she grimaced. "And now here I am. Perhaps she was clairvoyant."

John stared. The caller was a woman? He wondered what Sherlock would make of this new tidbit of information. He'd wait until later to tell him though. Miss Walker wasn't in any kind of state for an interrogation, especially not one from Sherlock Holmes. He could spare her that at least and perhaps assuage some of his guilt over her condition.

"Do you recall anything else?" he asked.

She didn't reply, her eyes clenched shut. Both of her knees jerked about. A muscle in her arm rippled, and her fingers gripped the curved wooden arm of the chair. Violent twitching of the legs and agitated muscles indicated the final stages of withdrawal.

His eyes landed on the radio near the desk. Perhaps she'd find some music a helpful distraction.

Turning on the wireless, he spun the old dial until he found a local station playing smooth jazz.

Her breathing grew more labored, nearly drowning out the crooning saxophone and rambling piano melody.

"Hey, now. Take it easy." John knelt beside her chair. Her eyes were still closed and there was a grating noise. The sound of teeth grinding together.

A trumpet squealed, and she shrieked, back arching off the chair. The arms and legs of the antique groaned as she strained against the nylon bonds.

Oh god. She was going to seriously injure herself.

John threw open the window, heedless of the rain pouring in. "Sherlock!"

The chair gave an ominous creak. John whipped around and caught the edge of it before it could topple over. Rapid footsteps pounded up the stairs, and Sherlock burst through the door. The drenched detective took one look at the writhing woman, then darted to her side.

"Vivian!" He caught her thrashing head between his hands.

Miss Walker's eyes snapped open, but they were unnaturally wide, her pupils so dilated John could hardly see any green at all.

Sherlock ran his hands down her twitching arms and legs.

She screamed.

"Her entire body is cramping. We can't untie her like this. Quick! There's a pair of scissors to the left of the kitchen sink."

John left Sherlock to restrain her and sprinted out the room and downstairs. He nearly slipped on the wooden floor in the hallway from the water Sherlock had tracked inside. He slid into the kitchen, grabbed the scissors out of the drawer, and ran towards the stairs. A voice in his head which sounded suspiciously like his mother screeched for him to be careful.

Just as he summited the staircase, Miss Walker's screams ceased. The ringing silence was quickly replaced by a strangled yell from Sherlock.

John skidded into the room and nearly dropped the scissors in shock.

The scene looked like something out of a vampire horror film.

Sherlock was crouched awkwardly over the arm of the chair and Miss Walker's face was buried in the side of his neck.

Both were completely still. The only sound in the room came from Sherlock's panting breaths and the radio droning on about the weather in Balcombe.

Sherlock glared at him. "Don't just stand there. Do something!"

John hurried over, dropping the scissors onto the desk. Pushing Miss Walker's hair out of the way, he jabbed his thumbs into both sides of her jaw to get her to let go. She didn't respond.

Sherlock grunted. "If she bites down any harder on my carotid, I'm going to pass out."

"I'll have to knock her out then." John applied a pinching pressure to the artery on the right side of her neck. It would temporarily cut off the blood supply to her brain. He just hoped that when she lost consciousness her body wouldn't spasm, resulting in her taking a large bite out of his friend.

Her head dropped, then gave a jerk.

Sherlock hissed.

John wrenched her jaw open and his friend slumped to the ground, hand clutching the side of his neck.

"Are you all right?"

Sherlock got to his feet. "I'm fine. It's just a bite."

"Let me at least take a look at the damage."

He ushered Sherlock into the bathroom, opened his medical kit, and removed disinfectant, gauze, and tape.

"Go ahead and drop your hand now." John held a Betadine-soaked cotton ball at the ready.

Sherlock's hand fell away.

John stared. Miss Walker's teeth had left half-moon cuts on Sherlock's skin. It couldn't have been a more perfect bite mark if it had been drawn on. Unfortunately for Sherlock, the mark would certainly scar, and its location directly beneath his right ear would make it difficult to hide with his usual scarf or upturned coat collar.

The only sign of his friend's discomfort was a slight flinch as he applied antibacterial ointment.

"You do know you're allowed to act hacked off and curse a bit right?" John asked.

Sherlock cast a sideways glance at him. "What would be the point?"

"She bit you." John tossed the unused gauze back into his kit and removed his container of plasters. "It would be a normal human reaction."

"Miss Walker isn't exactly in her right mind. Would you blame a rabid dog for biting you?"

John snickered. "Is that your way of calling her a bitch?"

His friend sighed. "Are you quite finished?"

Somehow he'd expected Sherlock to have a stronger response, especially after the man's odd behavior down at the pond. It boggled his mind how his friend managed to divorce himself from most, if not all emotion. The only time he'd seen Sherlock truly unhinged was after his friend had been exposed to a mind-altering drug during their infamous Baskerville case. Nothing had impacted him since.

"I'm finished, but I'm afraid it's going to scar." John placed a large plaster over the bite.

Sherlock shrugged. "It's not the first time I've received an injury, and I doubt it'll be my last."

John cleaned up the mess and followed him back into the guest room.

Miss Walker remained unconscious, her bottom lip stained red with Sherlock's blood. He'd best clean her up while he had the chance.

John eyed his friend. His hair was a dripping mess, and his soaked clothing completely disheveled. "Why don't you go get cleaned up? Try not to get the plaster too wet though."

Sherlock frowned. His gaze bounced around the room.

John prodded him towards the door. "I promise I'll call you if I need any help. Now, get out, doctor's orders."

A saxophone trilled out a high-pitched solo.

Though still slumped in her seat, Miss Walker whimpered, and her head jerked to the side.

Sherlock stared at her for a moment, then strode across the room and turned off the radio.

She stilled, and a small sigh escaped her mouth.

John blinked. "Right. Not a fan of jazz then."

A frown. "That's one possibility."

"You mean there's more than one?"

"Fourteen, at least. The answer couldn't possibly be so simple."

"Why not?"

His friend paused in the doorway and shot him a pointed look over his shoulder. "She's a woman."

* * *

Three hours later, John sat down on the white sofa across from Sherlock, and cradled a steaming cup of tea in his hands. A shower and a change of clothing had restored his friend to his usual stylish appearance, the only out of place accessory being the plaster covering the side of his neck. Lestrade would have a field day over the bite, not to mention Mrs. Hudson. John smiled at the thought of Mycroft catching sight of it. The line of questioning would be quite entertaining.

Sherlock opened his eyes. "What's so amusing?"

"Oh nothing. Traipsing about your mind palace, were you?" John blew a breath across the top of his mug.

"Yes. How is she?"

"Much better. She's been dozing in and out of sleep. It can't be comfortable with her head hanging over her arm, but at least she's resting. She's also mostly lucid now."

"Has she spoken?"

His teacup clinked as he set it down on the glass-topped chest. "Only to ask for more water. There won't be any dehydration issues with this patient."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose. "She's managing to keep it all down?"

"Yes. I really believe she's over the worst of it now." The guilty knot in his stomach relaxed ever so slightly.

Sherlock frowned. "Think, John. How much water has she consumed?"

"Four full glasses, maybe five. Why?"

His friend leaned forward. "And you haven't taken her to the toilet this entire time?"

John pursed his lips. "No, she hasn't asked. She did lose a great deal of water over the past few days."

Sherlock jumped to his feet and paced in front of the fireplace. "That doesn't make sense. It's too early for her system to be able to handle such a large intake of fluid."

"I watched her take a sip of water and nod off every ten minutes for the past three hours. The liquid definitely went into her mouth. I certainly didn't drink it."

His friend's pale blue eyes narrowed. "Neither did she. She'd have been sick if she had."

John folded his arms. "This is fascinating stuff. Should I include this in the blog? A study in H2O?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock spun on one foot to face him and the toe of his shoe caught on the tasseled edge of the Oriental rug. Sherlock stared down at the carpet and froze. "Nylon rope loses 15% of its strength when wet."

John's stomach dropped to his toes. "Bloody hell."

They ran for the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a review if you're enjoying my story. Thank you!


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock took the stairs two at a time, cursing John’s stupidity under his breath. The man was a bloody doctor. He should have realized Miss Walker’s rapid fluid intake was unusual, but no, he’d felt pleased she was properly hydrated. Good god. How did the man function?

He caught at the knob, but the guest room door wouldn’t open. He spun around and John nearly crashed into him.

“It’s locked. Check the other bedrooms. She could be trying to throw us off.”

“I’m on it." John sprinted past him down the hall.

Sherlock entered his old bedroom, which was closest to the stairs. Everything was in its place. She hadn’t come this way. He slid open his side table drawer and removed a set of keys, singling out the one he needed.

John met him at the door. “There’s no sign of her."

“We would have noticed if she'd come downstairs,” Sherlock said, as he unlocked the door.

The knob turned easily this time, but the door still refused to budge. It gave ever so slightly as he shoved his weight against it.

Sherlock dropped to the floor to look beneath the door. The sturdy legs of the antique were inches from his face. “The chair's jammed beneath the knob.”

John sighed. “Right. Of course it is.”

Light glinted off a pair of scissors resting on the carpet and a cool breeze blew across Sherlock’s nose. He jumped to his feet, then swept into the adjacent room. John followed.

Sherlock opened the window and removed his torch from his pocket.

John pressed his nose to the screen. “That’s at least a fourteen foot drop. She couldn’t have possibly jumped.”

“You didn’t see her in the barn." Sherlock shone his torch onto the outside wall. “She could have used the drainage pipe.” It was quite sturdy. He’d used it multiple times as a child. He pointed the light onto the ground below. “She didn’t jump or go down the pipe. The mud is undisturbed.”

John frowned. "Then where did she go?”

The roof creaked, and they both stared up at the ceiling.

Sherlock's chest tightened. “I believe she intends to make a far more permanent escape.”

John’s bewildered expression shifted to one of horror. “Oh my god.”

Sherlock headed into his parents’ old suite, John tight on his heels. He slid open the window and popped out the screen. This route would be the best way to get to the highest point of the roof. “Grab a few blankets. She’ll be needing one later. There should be extras in the closet.”

He set a foot on the sill, but before he could slip out, John caught his arm. “Are you sure you’re the best person to go after her?”

A wave of irritation set his teeth on edge. He wrenched back the sleeve on his left arm, exposing a long, thin scar stretching from wrist to elbow. “Lest you’ve forgotten, I do have experience in this particular area.”

John swallowed. “Right. I’ll just wait here then.”

Sherlock stepped onto the window ledge and climbed up the drainage pipe and onto the roof. The stones were slick, but he’d memorized every crack and crevice as a boy. He quickly found a safe path to the highest peak.

A misting rain floated through the air, the drops of moisture whisper-soft against his skin. The low hanging clouds blocked most of the natural light, making it difficult for him to make out much but the silhouettes of the chimneys.

No sign of her.

An abhorrent thought battered at his brain. Was he too late? He almost drew out his torch to search the grounds below, but then the moon shone through a gap in the clouds and reflected off a pale hand gripping the side of the chimney across from him. His eyes fell closed for a moment and he told himself it was only to help improve his night vision.

She stood holding onto the guest room chimney, her back to him.

He deliberately kicked a loose shingle, sending it crackling across the rooftop. Her head jerked at the noise and she twisted around. Most of her body was hidden by her black t-shirt and trousers, leaving the ivory skin of her face and arms glowing in the moonlight. It gave her a ghostly appearance. Perhaps she’d already jumped and this was her spirit, left to haunt _Brackenwood_ forevermore. He gave an inward eye roll. Ghosts didn’t exist, and even if they did, they wouldn’t need to cling to chimneys for balance.

They stood in silence for a long moment. The frogs down at the pond sang a low chorus and a breeze sighed over the rooftop. Each breath he took seemed overly loud to his ears.

No one had been there to try and talk him out of it.

As usual, his cleverness had left them underestimating the depth of his desperation, and it had only been sheer luck that he’d been found before he’d left this mortal coil. He was grateful for the interference now, but back then, he’d hated them for it.

It struck him, then, the power of words. Whatever he said next would either result in her remaining on the rooftop or leaping to her death. What could he possibly say? Perhaps John had been right to object.

Sherlock had no words of comfort for her, no meaningless platitudes, or empty promises.

All he could offer her was the truth.

He leaned back against the chimney above his parent’s room, conveying a nonchalance he most certainly didn’t feel. “If you intend to kill yourself, I suggest you jump from here. It’s the highest point on the roof. It would be a shame to go to all this effort only to maim or paralyze yourself.”

She tilted her head to the side. “You’re not here to try and stop me?”

“Do you want me to?”

“No." She moved away from her chimney, taking a step towards the side of the roof he’d recommended.

“I won’t, though if John were here, he’d attempt to physically restrain you or plead with you to come down. I refuse to do either.”

She paused, halfway to her destination. “Why are you here then?”

“I’m simply keeping you company while you think it through.”

The moonlight cut across her frown.

“It’s clear you haven’t decided. It took you five minutes to untie the weakened nylon rope on your right hand. You then took another minute to use the scissors John foolishly left on the desk to cut your remaining bonds. Six minutes were used to lock and block the door and exit the window. John’s tea was still steaming when he sat down on the sofa across from me. Judging by his boringly consistent tea-making methods, you’ve been on this rooftop for nearly twelve minutes. If you’d been certain, you would have done it already.”

She looked away, and he followed her gaze to the silvery pond in the distance. Did it appear to her like a portal to another realm? He used to think of it that way as a child. Now, it was nothing more than the refraction of light across water.

“You know, it’s customary to leave a note. It would be poor manners to leap off my brother’s rooftop without providing some sort of explanation for him.”

Her trembling hands reached up to clutch at her head. “Tell him I went mad.” It came out half whisper, half sob.

His eyebrows rose at the unexpected response. He chuckled and her head whipped around. The moonlight wasn’t necessary for him to recognize she was glaring at him. Excellent. If she could still find a spark of frustration within herself, then there was hope.

Apathy was the enemy.

He shoved away from the chimney and strolled across the rooftop until he was parallel with her. Only a five-foot gap separated them. “I’ve met the insane. In fact, I watched a madman blow his head off in front of me. The truly crazy lack self-awareness, rendering them incapable of recognizing their own deficit.”

She shook her head.

“You’re not crazy, Miss Walker. Damaged, yes. Crazy, no.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I understand enough. You intend to commit suicide based on a faulty self-diagnosis.”

“I can’t-” Her voice broke as she took a step closer to the edge. “I can’t continue on like this.”

“No, you certainly cannot. Consider this though. John Watson is the best physician I’ve ever known. Apart from his appalling decision to get rid of your drugs, he’s smarter than average, determined, and he genuinely cares for people. And don’t forget me. I’m brilliant. If we can’t help you, no one can.”

The tips of her toes now hung off the roof. “You said you weren’t going to try and stop me.”

“I’m not. I’m merely informing you of your options." Oddly enough, he had to suppress an urge to lunge forward and pull her back to safety.

She stared out over the grounds, then back at him. “What if you can’t help me?”

He moved closer, only stopping when her body went rigid. “If I can’t fix you, then I promise to help you end it.”

A sharp intake of breath indicated she'd heard him.

There was no further response.

“It’s your decision," he said finally.

With that, he turned around and made his way across the rooftop, passing the guest room chimney. The back of his neck prickled, aware of her watching him walk away. His feet felt strangely heavy as if he were slogging through deep sand. He climbed down the drainpipe and slid through the open window, staring at the antique chair propped against the door.

It had been far more difficult than he’d anticipated to leave her there, alone.

If she were to throw her life away, he knew now he wouldn’t escape unscathed. Perhaps it was because he’d already saved her once. It always bothered him to have his efforts go to waste. He should have just let her get hit by the car. Regardless, the decision was out of his hands now.

He set the scissors back on the desk and binned the ruined pieces of nylon rope. After pulling the chair away from the knob, he opened the door, and poked his head out.

“Did you find the blankets?” he asked, yelling down the hall.

John hurried into the guest bedroom, a pile of comforters in his arms. He spun around in confusion. “Where is she?”

Sherlock turned on the gas fireplace and took a seat. “She’s still on the rooftop deciding whether to kill herself or not. I expect we’ll have an answer in the next minute or two.”

The blankets tumbled out of John’s arms, his face aghast. “You left her up there?”

“Yes, of course. She’s not hiding in the loo.”

John’s fists clenched. “Are you insane? You were supposed to help her, not encourage her to jump!”

Sherlock straightened. “Her life is hers to keep or take as she pleases. You or I could stop her, but who’s to say she won’t try again at the next opportunity? It has to be her decision or we won’t be able to trust her and she won’t trust herself. Besides, it’s not like we can keep tying her up. We’re out of rope.”

John sagged onto the edge of the bed and put his head in his hands. “This is all my fault.”

“Wrong. You’re only 63% responsible.”

John groaned. “You’re not helping.”

Bare feet landed on the windowsill.

Sherlock froze. The odd sensation in his chest gave a final squeeze, before ebbing away. “Perhaps you’d like to help Miss Walker inside, John.”

His friend’s head shot up, and stark relief stood out on his face.

Miss Walker took John’s offered hand and stepped into the room.

Tired green eyes met his. “You have seven days, Mr. Holmes.”

“Agreed.” She’d given him more time than he’d expected.

John moved to place a comforter over her shoulders, but she shied away.

“I’d like to clean up. I don’t suppose you have any clothes for me, do you?”

John set the blanket on the bed. “Giles packed a bag for you. I’ll just pop downstairs and grab it."

Sherlock stood and entered the bathroom. The shower was built of white marble and glass. He opened the stall door and raised the shower head. After turning on the water, he adjusted the temperature, then closed the door behind him. Miss Walker leaned heavily against the door jamb.

“The last person to use the shower was incredibly short. I don’t imagine you’d appreciate the water at chest height." He used a plush towel to dry off a few droplets that had hit him. “If the water starts to run cold, pull back on the knob and crank it to the left. It catches sometimes. Towels are beneath the sink.”

She plucked at the dirty hem of her hoodie, gaze darting from him to the steam rising behind the glass walls. “You’re not planning on staying in here while I shower, are you?”

Sherlock frowned. “Do you need a chaperon?”

“I’m not planning on shattering the mirror and using the shards to slit my wrists, if that’s what you’re asking."

“While I’m relieved to hear that, the only reason I’m still standing here is because you’re blocking my exit.”

“Oh.” She shifted sideways, swaying slightly on her feet.

He slipped past her and back into the bedroom. “Don’t take too long. You’re dehydrated, malnourished, and still experiencing the final stages of withdrawal. I’d prefer not to have to fetch your unconscious body from the shower.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Most men wouldn't mind.”

“I’m not most men,” he said, mouth quirking.

She blinked, eyelids heavy. “Clearly. What about my clothes?”

“After John brings your luggage up, I’ll set it just inside the door." He settled back into the chair by the fire.

She nodded and retreated into the bathroom.

A few minutes later, John entered the room lugging a gigantic maroon wheeled bag behind him.

He frowned. Giles must have replaced her black duffel bag.

It took his friend a moment to catch his breath. “How did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Make her change her mind?” John asked, gesturing towards the window.

“I didn’t make her do anything. I merely presented her with a reasonable alternative.”

“And what alternative was that?” John's eyes narrowed. “You didn’t promise her drugs, did you?”

Sherlock looked up at the ceiling. “Don’t be absurd. I offered our help and she agreed.”

"Why seven days?”

“That’s her time limit before we proceed with a secondary solution." He had no intention of elaborating any further. John wouldn’t understand and would mostly certainly try to stop him.

“And what is that?”

“I doubt it’ll be an issue,” Sherlock said, waving a dismissive hand. “Miss Walker appeared unsteady on her feet. Could dehydration be a contributing factor?”

John’s gaze shifted from him to the bathroom door, his brow wrinkling. “Yes, especially since she wasn’t taking in fluids like I’d thought. Certainly low blood sugar as well. I'll make tea.”

“Could you bring it to the library? The three of us should discuss her case together. Once she’s ready, I’ll bring her down.”

John nodded and left the room. It was fortunate his friend was so easily distracted by the needs of his patient.

Sherlock approached the bathroom, luggage bag in hand. The shower was still running. He eased open the door and set the bag just on the inside left of the entrance. Unfortunately, he hadn’t accounted for the new steam-resistant mirror Mycroft had installed above the vanity. It gave him an unimpeded view of the opaque glass walls of the shower and Miss Walker’s naked silhouette. He averted his gaze and quickly shut the door, but the damage was already done.

Stumbling back to his chair, he rubbed at his eyes, trying to erase the image now burned onto his retinas. It wasn’t always like this, only when he was caught off guard or when his brain arbitrarily decided that one image or another was worth latching onto, without his consent. He glanced up and flinched as her body superimposed itself across the wall. Her arms were braced against the marble, head flung back beneath the spray of water. He could trace the arch of her neck, the sweeping curve of shoulder, breast, and hip. Not for the first time, he cursed his mind’s dedication to detail.

It would take him hours to delete it, and he didn’t have the time now. Taking a deep breath, he centered himself, then shoved the image into a holding room in his Mind Palace. Opening his eyes, he sighed in relief as it slowly faded from sight. It was only a temporary reprieve though. If he didn’t resolve it soon, it would begin to wreak all kinds of havoc.

He of all people couldn’t allow that to happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All comments and reviews are greatly appreciated! If you liked this chapter or despised it, I'd love to know. Happy Friday!


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock frowned at the bathroom door. The water had shut off ten minutes ago. What could she be doing in there?

The door opened and her head peeked around the side of it. Her wet hair hung loose around her face, the strands the deep red of de-oxygenated blood.

“These aren’t my clothes."

“What do you mean?” He got to his feet.

She scowled. “What else could I mean?”

He conceded the point. It was a rather inane question. Clearly his own exhaustion over the past few days was finally creeping up on him. “Allow me to take a look." He grabbed hold of the door latch.

“No. I’ve only got a towel on." She yanked the handle away from his hand.

He stared down his nose at her, relishing the fact he could do so, since her feet were bare. “You’re being irrational. I’m not going to ogle you. That’s John’s area. I need to examine your luggage.”

The image of her naked silhouette briefly surfaced before he viciously shoved it away. The mental effort shot a stabbing pain behind his eyes, irritating him further. Through the three-inch gap in the doorway, he deliberately raked his gaze over her exposed shoulder, past the side of her towel-covered torso, down her toned calves to her feet and slowly back up. “Besides, you have nothing that interests me.”

Her mouth fell open and he took advantage of her distracted indignation and threw the door open. She was wrapped in a blue towel, its soft folds covering her from chest to upper thighs. Any energy she’d acquired from the shower dissipated, leaving her wobbling sideways. He caught her arm before she could stumble into the counter and guided her to a chair beside the brightly lit vanity.

“Sit.”

It was a tribute to her exhaustion that she complied without protest, sagging back into the cushioned seat. He surveyed the open maroon bag sitting on the counter. Various fabrics spilled out, their bright jewel-tones reflecting on the shining white marble. He ran a hand across a deep cerulean blouse. The cool, slick feeling of mulberry silk slid across his skin. Nestled to the right lay a purple cashmere jumper. He held up a pair of linen trousers. There were no tags to be found. Custom made. He set it back in the bag. Miss Walker was staring at his feet, her fingers gripping the hem of her towel. He frowned and followed her gaze, then wished he hadn’t.

Lacy green satin lay across the toe of his leather shoe. Shiny black beads decorated the bra and he found himself irresistibly reminded of belladonna and its toxic berries. An adulterous husband in Dorset had experienced its potent effects after devouring a mixed green salad served by his vengeful wife.

“I doubt it’ll fit you,” she said, startling him out of his reverie.

He stared at her. Had he missed something?

She smirked, gaze darting from the bra to his chest. “You’re more than welcome to try it on though.”

Inexplicably, the back of his neck grew warm. He looked down at the offensive bit of lace. He couldn’t just leave it there, but he felt oddly reluctant to touch the delicate undergarment.

This was ridiculous. It wasn’t poisonous. Stooping, he slipped one finger beneath one silky strap and picked it up. After careful examination, he tossed it to her.

Her cheeky smile morphed into surprise. It landed in her lap and she caught it before it could tumble away.

Sherlock lifted one brow. “Of course it won’t fit me. It’s your size. In fact, all of these clothes are designed to fit you specifically.”

She shook her head, lips compressed into a thin line. “I’m not even going to ask how you know that. I just want my bloody clothes back.”

Sherlock didn’t bother to hide the wide smile spreading across his face. “It appears Mr. Giles took issue with your attire. He’s quite an excellent butler. You should raise his salary.”

Anger suffused her face. “He had no right.” Her eyes widened and she sat back in her chair. Taking in a deep breath, she let it out slowly, hands twitching across the towel. Her next words were tense, but more controlled. “I take it I don’t have any other options, do I?”

“Most women would be thrilled to wear custom made silk, cashmere, and linen clothing.”

She glared at him. “I’m not most women.”

“Clearly. Most women don’t know how to hot-wire a car.”

Her chin lifted. “How would you know? Have you taken a survey?”

He shook his head. “Get dressed. John has tea waiting for us in the library.”

Sherlock left the bathroom. He frowned. Enduring her violent mood swings over the next few days was going to be a treat. He paused, eyes narrowed. Perhaps he could help her acclimate more easily to life without morphine. It would be mutually beneficial, after all.

He walked to his bedroom, opened his luggage, and pocketed a small, thin box. When he returned, Miss Walker exited the bathroom, wearing the linen trousers and silk blouse. Mr. Giles had chosen well. The deep blue of the blouse complemented her skin tone and the trousers fit properly, unlike her other pair. She glowered down at her feet which were ensconced in white heels, the shorter height not to her normal standards.

Naturally, she would have gone for the tallest pair available.

His mouth curved. He still had her beat by two inches.

He retrieved the box from his pocket and held it out for her.

She stared at it for a moment, then winced. A hand rose to massage her temple. “Should I be impressed?”

His eyes narrowed. Something was off with her. Something that went beyond the drug withdrawals.

Her posture went stiff and her eyes darted away from him. The answer slammed into his brain with such stunning force, he almost dropped the box. He shook his head. How could he have missed it? Mycroft would have figured it out the moment he picked up her featureless mobile. For a moment, he was eight-years old again and Mycroft was telling him what an idiot he was for not having deduced father’s sordid love affair with Mrs. Chambers sooner.

John’s voice carried up the stairwell and through the open door. “Hurry up or the tea will go cold.”

She twitched. “It would be rude to keep him waiting." She headed for the door.

He caught her arm, fingers curling across silk now warmed by the heat of her skin. “Not so fast, Miss Walker.”

Her shoulders slumped. “What do you want?”

The lines of weariness on her face made him hesitate. Perhaps it wasn’t the best time to bring it up. John was always harping on him about timing. Saving the topic for the library might be a better idea. At least he wouldn’t have to repeat everything to John then. Releasing her, he removed a packet from the box, and tore it open. “I want you to roll up the sleeve on your left arm, so I can apply a nicotine patch.”

She stared at him. “What? Why?”

“One of the many benefits of nicotine is its mood-altering effects. It’s both a stimulant and a relaxant. While it won’t satisfy your craving for morphine, it will help stabilize the emotional fluctuations you’re currently experiencing.”

“I’ve just barely got off one vice and now you want me on a new one?”

“This one is at least legal and has fewer negative side effects than your previous drug of choice.”

She fidgeted with her sleeve. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Are you going to accept my help or not? I need you coherent and calm, not an emotional wreck.”

She complied and he placed the patch on the inside of her arm, just below her armpit.

“Why did you put it up so high?”

“John may wish to examine your wrists and the scratches on your arms a second time. He won’t look there."

Sherlock pocketed the wrapper and the box.

She frowned as she adjusted the flowing silk cuff. “You mean he doesn’t know?”

He wondered if the morphine had caused permanent damage to her brain. “Of course he doesn’t know and I suggest you don’t tell him.”

“Why not?”

He gave her a thin-lipped smile. “John doesn’t always approve of my unconventional methods, though I assure you they work just fine.”

“How would you know?”

He pulled up the sleeve on his right arm, revealing two nicotine patches. “I was a cocaine addict. Trust me, the patches help.”

Her mouth fell open. “You were an addict? Why?”

“I was bored. Now, let’s go have tea before John has an embolism.”

*******

During family visits to  _Brackenwood_ , his father would either hole up in his private library or escape to the basement, his choice in location largely dependent on whether he was working on some government project or not. Regardless, Sherlock hadn’t been allowed in either room, though rules did little good where he was concerned. He used to sneak down to the library in the middle of the night, pick the lock, and browse through the formidable selection of books, small hands running over the ancient leather tomes.

Mycroft had caught him once, but surprisingly hadn’t scolded him nor ratted on him. Instead, he’d quizzed him on how many books he’d read and asked whether he found anything particularly interesting. They discovered a common ground in Euclid’s  _Elements_ , Goethe’s  _Metamorphosis of Plants_ , and Winwood Reade’s  _The Martyrdom of Man_. After that, Mycroft showed up a few times a week for an hour or two. Part of the time they spent reading in companionable silence, the other half, arguing quietly over one topic or another. Despite these evening encounters, their relationship remained unchanged in the light of day, volatile as always.

Somehow the library had the power to briefly bridge the gap between them. Sherlock hadn’t realized how much he enjoyed their discussions until one summer when Mycroft didn’t show. He’d been six years old at the time, huddled in his bathrobe on a cold leather chair, Locke’s  _Essay of Human Understanding_  propped on top of his knobby knees, eyes darting every now and then to the door. It took him two weeks to accept the fact that Mycroft wasn’t going to visit the library again. He stubbornly continued his nightly visits even though he’d already memorized the entire collection by then.

Now, it all seemed silly, foolish, and childish, though he couldn’t deny a lingering sense of disappointment and confusion over the matter.

Miss Walker sat in his old, worn leather chair, sipping at her chamomile tea.

John cleared his throat. “So, what are we here to discuss?”

Sherlock waited until John had a mouthful of tea. “Miss Walker believes she’s going mad.”

The army doctor choked, almost spewing his tea across the room. “What? Why?”

She shifted in her seat and her green eyes darted from John’s face then back to Sherlock’s. “I hear voices and sounds that aren’t there.”

He blinked, momentarily taken aback. He’d expected an interesting explanation for her behavior, but not one quite as fascinating as this. He shot a glance at John who had just pulled out a pen and notepad. “Does she appear to be mentally unstable to you?”

His friend ignored him, gaze now focused completely on Miss Walker. “Besides these auditory hallucinations, are you experiencing any paranoia, disorganized thinking, speech difficulties, or memory problems?"

She folded her arms across her chest. “No, not really, though I do experience scattered thoughts throughout the day. It’s worse late in the evening. The false noises get so bad I can hardly hear myself think. I can't sleep because of it.”

Hence the morphine.

Sherlock glanced at John’s notepad. His friend had written down ‘Schizophrenia?’. Sherlock had already considered and dismissed the idea in seconds. John needed more convincing.

Sherlock moved to stand in front of the fireplace. The welcome warmth spread across the backs of his calves. “Are you delusional, Miss Walker?”

She lifted an eyebrow. “I don’t wear a tin foil hat to keep the aliens from scanning my brain, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Do these auditory hallucinations try to force you to do anything?”

“No, of course not.”

“Congratulations, Miss Walker. You’re not schizophrenic.”

Rather than looking relieved, she frowned. “That doesn’t rule out other forms of mental illness.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Why are you so eager to assume you’re mentally ill? Isn’t it far more likely you’re just brain-damaged?”

“Sherlock.” John shot him a warning glance, which he ignored.

“I assume your auditory issues began after the severe head injury you incurred.”

She blinked. Her hand lifted to touch the back of her head. “How do you know about that?”

“We noticed the scarring when treating the laceration on the side of your head,” John said, his expression apologetic.

She took another sip of her tea. “I was in an accident six months ago.”

"What kind of accident?" Sherlock asked. It annoyed him that she had to be prompted to elaborate. Most clients babbled incessantly. Getting her to part with personal information was like trying to remove shrapnel from a morbidly obese corpse.

“A bad one.” Her eyes narrowed. “The details of it are irrelevant.”

Sherlock repressed the urge to grind his teeth. “Do you plan on sharing anything useful or are we done here?”

Her grip tightened on her tea cup. “What else would you like to know? You know I’ve been in an accident and I hear things that aren’t there.”

John cut in. “Would you mind sharing with us more about the injury itself and the medical treatment you received?”

“There was swelling in my brain. The excess fluid was drained through a stent and I was in an induced coma for a week. The stitches were removed a few months ago. Scans revealed no permanent damage to my brain.”

“Any lingering side effects besides your auditory issues?” John’s pen scratched across his notepad.

“Yes, unfortunately. Migraines, tinnitus, insomnia, difficulty focusing.”

“And your physician hasn’t addressed these issues?”

“None of his recommendations have helped.”

John frowned. “What did he say about your auditory hallucinations?”

She looked away. “I didn’t tell him about it.”

John fumbled with his pen. “Why not?”

“She’s afraid.” Sherlock tilted his head to the side.

But what had her so afraid that she couldn’t even confide in her own physician? Fear implied she had something to lose. But what was it?

The woman sitting across from him was no shrinking violet. She’d knocked John out, battled him across hay bales, and escaped onto the rooftop, all while enduring the agony of withdrawal. Her independence and self-confidence had nearly been the death of her, so certain in her self-diagnosis of madness.

Somehow, he’d gotten through to her by inserting a sliver of doubt in her mind and a promise of oblivion. Even now, he could see the lines of tension in her body radiating outward as if she were braced for a fight. She didn’t want their help, was revolted by the very thought of it. Each answer was torn out of her with the utmost reluctance.

Fear and identity were intertwined. Sherlock lived for The Work, the twist of the maze, the thrill of the chase. John Watson was an adrenaline junkie, intrigued by danger, drawn to it much like an addict to cocaine. It was why they were friends.

The answer to Miss Walker’s fear was simple.

“You’re afraid you’ll lose your job,” Sherlock said.

She set her empty cup down on the coffee table, then gave him a curt nod. “My employer requires access to all my medical records. My job would be in jeopardy if anyone were to discover the true extent of my injuries. I would be labeled incompetent and shown the door. I refuse to allow that to happen.”

John looked indignant. “It would be illegal for them to let you go.”

She shook her head. “No, it wouldn’t. I signed a very detailed contract which would allow them to freely eliminate my job without legal recourse.”

“Why on earth would you work for a company like that?” John asked, appalled.

She gave his friend a small smile. “The company isn’t perfect, but there are certain perks. Besides, I love what I do. My work is my life.”

Sherlock’s palms twitched, barely resisting the urge to reach out and shake her. “You say your work is your life and you’ve accepted my offer of help, yet you’re still holding back vital information regarding your head injury. Why?”

Her eyes closed for a long moment and when they opened, they were full of pain.

Sherlock was done being patient. “Care to share or would you prefer I do so?”

John looked back and forth between them, his brow furrowed.

“Go ahead." She stared down at her hands.

It hit him then. She was ashamed. So much so, she couldn’t speak the truth.

Sherlock had no such compunction. “Miss Walker is unable to read.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments and reviews brighten my day like nothing else. Please take a moment and let me know what you think. Thank you! -JD


	15. Chapter 15

John actually dropped his pen this time. “What?”

Sherlock gazed up at the ceiling. “Please. It’s glaringly obvious. Her mobile is void of numbers or letters, clearly customized to her specifications. She refused hard copy documents in favor of digital. We never saw her without her Bluetooth on her ear. She mistakenly entered my room at _Aria_ because she was unable to read the name on the door. Then there was the questionnaire the maid handed to her regarding her preferences. If you recall, Miss Walker asked what it was after frowning at it and rubbing the side of her head.”

He decided not to mention her inability to recognize the nicotine box had been the trigger for his own epiphany regarding her disability.

“But you were able to read before the car accident?” John asked.

She nodded.

“How have you been able to function at work?”

“I’m very, very careful. I request digital documentation. I have software that connects to my Bluetooth device allowing me to complete my work. Fortunately, since I move from company to company, it reduces the likelihood of my disability being discovered.”

“What happens when you try to read?” John asked.

Her mouth twisted. “My brain can’t process it. There’s no discernible pattern of repeating letters. I can still write, but while I’m certain I’ve written my own name, once it’s on paper, it’s unintelligible to me.”

“It sounds like a severe form of dyslexia,” John said, his tone thoughtful. “I could access a few medical journals and look into it for you, if you’d like.”

“I’d appreciate it, Doctor Watson, but it’s not my most immediate concern. While I’ve been able to manage without being able to read, my auditory hallucinations have become more and more disruptive.”

Sherlock noted her white-knuckled grip on the arm of the chair. “You’re hearing them right now, aren’t you?”

She gave a tremulous smile. “Do either of you hear heavy traffic or two men arguing?”

John shook his head.

She sighed. “Like I said, it’s worse in the evenings.”

John shot him a concerned look.

Sherlock frowned. No wonder the nicotine patch was proving ineffective. She’d likely need two or three to take the edge off at this rate.

“Is that all you’re hearing right now?” he asked, intrigued.

Her green eyes went unfocused. “No. There are layers of sounds all competing for my attention. They’re mostly garbled and indecipherable, but sometimes I can identify a word, tone, or familiar sound.”

His eyes narrowed. “Familiar how?”

“Even after six months, I can still hear the beeping sounds of my heart rate monitor and the whirring of the hospital air conditioner.”

“You did experience a traumatic event,” John said. “Those sounds could be ingrained in your memory now.”

“That’s one explanation of some of the facts,” Sherlock said, tapping a finger against his lips.

He dropped his hand as John’s words triggered a cascade of information.

He stared at Miss Walker. It was possible.

He sat down on the coffee table so he could face her at eye level. “I’m going to walk you through a mental exercise. It’ll help calm your mind so we can isolate the sounds you’re hearing.”

Her brow furrowed. “How am I supposed to calm my mind, if I can’t focus?”

“All you need to do is close your eyes and listen to the sound of my voice. Focus whatever energy you can on what I’m saying. Can you do that?”

She shut her eyes. “I can try.”

“Good.” Sherlock looked over at John. “Try not to slurp at your tea or breathe heavily.”

John set his cup onto the coffee table and leaned back in his seat. “I’ll be here pretending I don’t exist, how’s that?”

“Perfect.” Sherlock turned back to Miss Walker. “Take five deep breaths in and out. Slow and steady. Count to five as you inhale and again as you exhale.”

After a moment, her hands relaxed their grip on the arm of the chair.

He nodded. “Do it again. Now don’t try to block out the sounds you’re hearing, simply allow them to wash over you. You’re a passive listener. Continue the same breathing pattern.”

Her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm.

“Now without opening your eyes, describe what you’re hearing, no matter how nonsensical.”

“Give me a minute,” she said, her voice strained.

Clearly, she was used to doing everything she could to keep the auditory hallucinations at bay. Embracing them now had to be counterintuitive.

“I hear a dripping faucet, a woman singing, squealing tires, two men arguing again, and the roar of an engine.”

Interesting. “I’m going to have you perform one more exercise. Keep your eyes shut. I’m going to ask you a series of questions. Answer as quickly as possible. Don’t think. Just respond.”

“Okay.”

“What’s two times two?”

Her mouth quirked. “Four.”

“Twelve times twelve?”

“One hundred forty-four.”

“Six times seven?” He ignored the incredulous look John sent him.

“Forty-two.”

As she grew more relaxed, he increased the speed of his questions until their conversation resembled a verbal ping-pong match.

“Nine times nine?”

“Eighty-one.”

“What’s the weather tomorrow in Balcombe?”

“Fifteen degrees with scattered showers.” Her eyes flew open. “How do I know that?”

A surge of triumph shot through him and he smiled. “Congratulations, Miss Walker. Youur auditory hallucinations aren’t hallucinations at all. They’re memories.”

She frowned. “Memories? But I don’t even recall hearing the sounds I described to you.”

John leaned forward. “She wasn’t even awake during the weather forecast. How is that possible?”

“It appears she doesn’t need to be conscious to process and store the sounds she hears. It’s quite fascinating, actually.”

She scowled. “Excuse me. I’m right here. Would you mind explaining what the hell is going on inside my head?”

Sherlock cast her a sidelong glance. “I’m not sure anyone is capable of doing that, Miss Walker, not even me. However, the answer for your auditory issues is quite simple. The human brain processes sensory input constantly. In early stages of development, the brain learns to filter out data it believes to be inconsequential. That’s why over time, you gradually lose awareness of a ticking clock or the background noise of traffic. This coping mechanism allows the brain to focus on what it deems to be important. There’s a theory that the human brain actually stores every single sensory experience. All that I’ve encountered supports this viewpoint.”

John interrupted him. “If my brain remembers everything, why can’t I recall what I had for breakfast last week?”

Sherlock shook his head. “It’s a question of access.”

“What does that have to do with my auditory problems?” she asked.

“It’s everything to do with it. Your brain injury appears to have affected both your temporal and occipital lobes. You’ve lost the ability to read, which indicates a severing of the visual cortices. In contrast, the portion of your brain responsible for processing auditory input, either as a result of the injury or out of a method of compensation, is now bombarding you with every sound you’ve heard since the accident.”

A panicked expression crossed her face and her breathing accelerated. “Isn’t there some way to fix it?”

He shook his head. “Doubtful. It’s been six months. If your brain was going to revert to its earlier state, it would have already done so. Welcome to the eidetic memory club, Miss Walker.”

John lifted a hand. “Hold on a moment. She hit her head and now she’s suddenly like you and Mycroft?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Hardly. Mycroft and I were born with eidetic memories.”

“So, you remember everything you hear also?” she asked.

He returned to the fireplace and leaned back against the mantel. “No. I recall everything I see.”

“And your brother?”

Sherlock sighed. “Mycroft retains all sensory input. Sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch.”

John frowned. “You never told me that.”

“How is he able to function?” Miss Walker asked, eyes wide.

“The same way I do,” he said, irritated. “We both utilize the method of loci to organize the data we receive. Only a disciplined mind can handle such a high influx of information.” He paused. “The benefit of being born with an eidetic memory is that the brain is able to develop methods of compensation over time. It’s different for you. Acquired savants have greater difficulty adjusting to such drastic changes.”

“What do you mean by acquired savant?” she asked.

John’s eyes lit up. “I read about this in the paper recently. An acquired savant is someone who receives a head injury and acquires an ability they didn’t previously have before, likely due to a rewiring of the synapses in the brain. The article mentioned a ten-year old boy in Lancashire who’d been hit by a cricket ball. After he recovered, he was able to perform complex calculations in his head.”

Sherlock nodded. “Years ago, I met a master pianist. He used to be an accountant. Following a severe concussion, he discovered an intuitive expertise for music. Currently, there are estimated to be thirty acquired savants in the world.” He nodded at her. “You’re number thirty-one.”

“Excuse me if I don’t share in your enthusiasm.” She lifted a hand to massage her temple. “So, I’m stuck like this, then, hearing memories for the rest of my life?”

“Of course not. I’m going to teach you to build a Mind Palace, a repository for all the data you receive. You’ll learn to delete needless information and retain only what is useful. I expect your other symptoms will fade once you acquire the necessary skills.”

Both her brows lifted, disappearing beneath her fringe. “You can’t be serious.”

“Are you reneging on our deal?” he asked, tone sharp.

She slowly shook her head.

“Good.” He slipped a hand into his pocket and palmed a nicotine patch. “I suggest you try and get as much rest as possible. What I intend to teach you over the next week will be mentally taxing.”

He offered her his hand, angling his wrist so the flesh-colored square was hidden from John’s view, but visible to her. To her credit, she merely blinked, then took his hand, allowing him to pull her from the chair. As he let go, her fingers curled in ever so slightly and caught hold of the patch. It disappeared quickly into her pocket, with John blissfully unaware of the magic trick performed beneath his nose.

She gave him a small smile and nodded to John. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I do appreciate both your help.”

“It’s our pleasure,” John said.

She slipped out the door.

John turned to him, his smile twisting into an expression of concern. “Sherlock, I couldn’t even build a Mind Bungalow and you’re expecting her to construct a Mind Palace? In a week?”

“She doesn’t have a choice.”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“If you’d bothered to flip to the back of the paper to finish the article on acquired savants, you’d realize our situation is more dire than it appears. There were two other cases where victims of head injuries were unable to adapt. If she doesn’t learn to control the influx of data, her mind will deteriorate beneath the pressure. Rather like an engine overheating.”

“What happened to them?”

“One went mad. The other became comatose, then died a few days later.”

John stared. “Shouldn’t we tell her?”

“I don’t believe it’s necessary at this point. I expect she’s already quite willing to do anything to alleviate her symptoms, though should the need arise, I won’t hesitate to inform her of the consequences of failure.”

John shook his head and ran his hand across his face, his eyes tired. “And you’re the best one to help her?”

“I’m the only who can.” Mycroft certainly wasn’t about to waltz in to provide aid. “If she can manage to focus long enough to learn, I’m certain my methods will result in success.”

John only yawned. “I’ll take your word for it. My own brain is about to shut down from lack of sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Sherlock nodded, and his friend picked up the tea tray and left the library.

Once he was certain John had left for good, he got up and took the leather seat Miss Walker had vacated. It felt smaller than he remembered.

A chime sounded from his pocket, and he removed his mobile, glancing at the screen.

_I’m relieved you managed to convince your guest not to leap off the rooftop. It would have been most vexing to have to find a new property manager, as Patterson would have refused to shovel brain matter off the lawn. -MH_

_I wish I could say I was pleased to save you the headache, but we both know that’s not true. -SH_

_What does John think about your little agreement? I imagine he stirred up quite a fuss. -MH_

Sherlock’s grip tightened on his phone. He’d expected there to be video cameras on the rooftop, but hadn’t anticipated audio recording devices as well. He’d underestimated his brother’s paranoia.

_Consider this a warning, brother. It would reflect poorly on me should you assist this woman in committing suicide. Despite my formidable influence within the British government, it’s doubtful whether I could shorten a fourteen year prison sentence. -MH_

_I’m confident it won’t come to that. -SH_

_Alea iacta est. -MH_

Sherlock frowned and set his mobile on the coffee table.

_The die has been cast._

Naturally, Mycroft didn’t share in his confidence. Pity. The video footage would have failed to accurately convey Miss Walker’s tenacity. While it could be viewed as a risky endeavor, his promise to assist in ending her life if he couldn’t help her hadn’t been made on a whim. The outcome certainly wasn’t left to chance. He had a plan.

Sherlock ran a hand across the bandage on the side of his neck. The wound throbbed in time with his pulse.

John often complained he lacked empathy, the ability to relate to another person’s emotions. The doctor’s assessment of him was entirely accurate, though since becoming friends with John he’d gotten better at recognizing emotions in others.

Disappointment was the rigid lines of John’s shoulders, humor, the wrinkles around Lestrade’s eyes, and humiliation, the ragged catch in Molly Hooper’s voice. He’d neatly labeled them, but remained detached from it all.

Until now.

Miss Walker’s plight had somehow struck a chord within him. She was like a tuning fork forcing him to adjust to her frequency, weakening him.

It was intolerable.

Initially, he’d thought his discomfort was entirely due to her reminding him of his own horrific experiences with addiction. That was true, for the most part, but it was more than that. He found himself overly concerned for her welfare.

It was like an infectious disease spreading through his system. He of all people couldn’t afford to develop any kind of sympathy for anyone, especially this damaged woman.

Most clients weren’t in need of personal help from him, his interaction with them limited to a boring interrogation. Should any minor rapport develop between him and Miss Walker, he’d ensure it was demolished by the end of the week.

He poked at the bandage and pain flared. Good.

The scar would serve as a reminder of the consequences for getting too close.

He’d tolerate her, train her, and then be rid of her.

Caring was not an advantage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments and reviews are better than chocolate! Please be a dear, and leave me a note. :-)


	16. Chapter 16

John hummed to himself as he removed another warm slice of bread from the toaster. It didn't even bother him that the chilled pat of butter was difficult to spread. Seven hours of consecutive sleep really did wonders for the body and mind. The rich scent of coffee filled the air, and the pot beeped just as Sherlock entered the kitchen.

If anything, the circles beneath Sherlock’s eyes looked darker than yesterday, making the lines of his face more angular.

“Did you sleep at all?” John set the leaning tower of toast onto the table.

Sherlock poured himself a cup of coffee and took a seat. “Briefly. I had to delete a particularly insistent image before heading to bed.”

Ah. After a circus case they'd had, Sherlock had stayed awake for three days straight, claiming he was being assaulted by images of clowns. John reckoned it was rather like getting a song stuck in your head that replayed over and over. Weren’t they called ear-worms? Except his friend would get a random image stuck in his head instead. Like an eye-worm. He grimaced. He really didn’t need to be thinking about retina-eating parasites before breakfast.

A moment later, Miss Walker joined them. The soft moss-colored jumper she wore brought out the green in her eyes. He was pleased to note a bit of color in her cheeks.

“You look nice." He pulled out a chair for her.

“Thank you,” she replied, though a tightness in her tone implied quite the opposite.

Sherlock chuckled, his mouth curving above his coffee cup.

“What?” John asked.

“Mr. Giles replaced Miss Walker’s clothes with ones he thought were better suited to her. You just helped prove his point.”

John pursed his lips. He would have been pissed to discover his own clothing replaced, especially if the cable jumper his mum had knit him had gone missing. “Well, that seems rather presumptuous on his part.”

“Thank you." Miss Walker cast him an appreciative smile as she reached for the toast.

Before she could take it, Sherlock’s hand darted out and snatched the plate away. “Digestion slows down the mind.”

“So does starvation." Her voice rose. “Give me the plate.”

Wonderful. So much for a nice, quiet morning.

“No. If you eat, your mind will be unable to function properly.”

She leaned forward. “If you don’t let me eat, Mr. Holmes, _you_ won’t be able to function properly.”

Sherlock lifted a brow. “Should I feel threatened?”

She honest-to-god growled and rose to her feet.

John finally understood what it meant about being able to cut the tension in a room with a knife.

What the hell was Sherlock doing? Antagonizing a post-withdrawal patient wasn’t recommended. It usually resulted in relapse or violence. Of course, this could just be Sherlock’s own weird form of morning entertainment. Let’s poke the hungry bear with a sharp stick and see what happens. Sometimes the man was an idiot.

“Really, Sherlock,” he said.

Sherlock’s glare shifted to him. “No. I refuse to allow her to sabotage her own lessons. How am I supposed to instruct her if the majority of her blood is busy working through her digestive tract instead of where it desperately needs to be - in her head?”

She exhaled sharply through her nose. “Doctor Watson, how am I supposed to focus without anything in my stomach? I’ve already been kidnapped, tied up, and forced to go through withdrawals. And now I’m not allowed to eat? You should have just let me jump off the roof.”

Sherlock snorted. “Oh please. Now you’re just being dramatic.”

John swallowed an overly large mouthful of tea and burnt his tongue. Pot, meet kettle.

The two of them stared at him with expectant looks on their faces. How had he become the referee? He certainly hadn’t signed up for the position. He didn’t even own a whistle.

He sighed. “Give her a slice of toast.”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted into a decidedly mulish expression, and for a moment John thought the man was going to accidentally-on-purpose knock the plate onto the floor.

“I mean it, Sherlock. It’s a good sign her appetite is even back. Now that the morphine is out of her system, she’ll need something small in her stomach to help jump-start her metabolism.”

Miss Walker shot a smug smile at his friend. "You heard him."

Sherlock’s jaw tightened. He picked up a piece from the stack, examined it and set it aside. He then did the same to the other five pieces, laying them out across the table. After selecting the smallest and most deformed slice, he set it on a plate and passed it over to her.

She didn’t even bother to take the plate, just snatched up the toast and took a huge bite.

John pointed a finger at her. “And you.”

She paused mid-chew.

“Small bites, you hear me? Eat it slowly or your stomach will rebel. I’m certain your abdominal muscles are sore enough as it is. You don’t want a repeat, do you?”

She shook her head and slowed down her chewing.

God. They were children.

While Sherlock glowered over his coffee cup and Miss Walker nibbled at her toast, John busied himself with preparing the chamomile tea he’d set aside for her. She mumbled her thanks as he set the steaming cup in front of her.

A long arm reached across the table and dumped a heaping spoonful of sugar into her tea.

An indignant squawking sound issued from around her last mouthful of toast.

Sherlock added a spoonful to his own coffee. “We’ll both need the extra glucose today.”

“Is that really necessary?” she asked.

While the human brain primarily consumed glucose as fuel, John reckoned Sherlock’s actions were motivated more by getting even for the toast consumption than actually improving brain functioning. Regardless, he'd best let them each win a battle, else there'd be a war. Honestly, he wasn't sure who would win, and he'd prefer not to phone Lestrade in for a double homicide.

He nodded. “The sugar should help you focus.”

Sherlock lifted his cup in salute. “You heard the good doctor. Drink up.”

She scowled and took a small sip. Her nose wrinkled. "It's ruddy awful."

“You’re also going to eat a slice of toast," John said to Sherlock.

His friend stared at him as if he’d just suggested they invite Sally Donovan over for tea. “You know my methods. I don’t eat when I’m on a case."

“What case? Are we even on one anymore?” he asked.

“Of course we are. We’re expected to track down Ms. Frost’s killer, the same man who came after Miss Walker and attempted to run her over.”

John folded his arms. "And how do you expect to accomplish all that when you’re busy helping Miss Walker build a Mind Palace for the next week? I imagine Mr. Giles was hoping for a quicker resolution.”

“I have a few ideas on how to move forward." Sherlock’s eyes gleamed.

John knew that look. “We are not taking her out onto the front lawn to see if anything attacks her.”

His friend's clever idea for the Baskerville case had been to take Henry Knight out on to the moor for the same purpose. While it helped them to solve the case, John was adamantly against a repeat of the event.

Sherlock frowned. “That wouldn't work at all. The killer doesn’t know where we are. We’d have to take her back to _Aria,_ and frankly that’s not possible at the moment.” His gaze shifted to Miss Walker. “The city is the last place for you right now. It’s fortunate this house is as quiet as it is.”

“Lucky me.” She slid a vellum envelope across the table. "If you're quite finished talking about me as if I'm not here, I thought you might want to look at this. It was in a pocket in my luggage. I think it's from Giles."

Sherlock picked up the envelope and removed a neatly folded slip of paper. Decorative calligraphy scrawled across the parchment. “You're correct. His handwriting is unmistakable.”

Her lips thinned. “I have an app that can read text from a photograph, but my mobile battery is dead.”

John’s eyebrows rose. There was an app for that?

“I doubt it would work as the script here is quite ornate," Sherlock said.

Miss Walker's back stiffened.

John bit back an exasperated sigh. “Read the bloody letter.”

His inept friend frowned. “What? I was merely stating a fact.”

Right. Let’s inform the woman who was unable to read that her coping mechanisms were insufficient. That would make her want to volunteer more information in the future.

“Just read it,” he said.

Sherlock straightened the page. “Dear Miss Walker, I hope this letter finds you well. I know Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson will do their best to ensure your safety. Along with managing the estate, Ms. Frost left me in charge of her wardrobe, and since you advised me to continue on with my usual duties, I took the liberty of replacing your clothing with a number of options which I believe will not only look flattering on you, but should also be comfortable. If you find any items to your liking, please let me know.”

Vivian mumbled something under her breath and glared out the window.

“Shall I go on?” Sherlock asked, staring at her over the top of the parchment.

She waved a hand for him to continue.

"Mr. Holmes mentioned he wanted to examine Ms. Frost’s personal effects, including the last piece of music she’d been working on the night of her death. Unfortunately, I had already gathered all the items and gave them to Mr. Hiddleston, the executor of the estate, for safe-keeping. I’m afraid he’s placed it all at Balthorne Safe Deposit Centre in London. I've enclosed the safe deposit key. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to be of assistance. Sincerely, Henry Giles.”

Sherlock turned the envelope upside down, and a gold key chain tumbled onto the table. There was a small metal cube attached to it. It certainly didn’t look like a safe deposit key.

“What do we do now?” John asked.

Miss Walker swallowed more tea and grimaced.

Sherlock tapped the letter. “While I play professor, you’ll go to London.”

He shook his head. “It’s secure for a reason. There’s no way they’ll allow me access to it.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m sure Giles can handle that side of it for you. Call him when you’re on the road.”

“I suppose that could work, but I’ll need to clean the glass off the front seat of the Bentley." John pocketed the safe deposit key. He didn’t fancy driving all the way to London with a busted window, but there was nothing for it.

“No need. Take Mycroft’s car.”

“You’re joking.”

“Why would I joke? He never drives it anyway. It just sits in the garage. At least it’d get some use.”

Sherlock stood and walked out of the kitchen, leaving him and Miss Walker to follow.

They headed through the living room and down the hall to the other side of the house. Sherlock opened a side door and they entered the garage.

A brand new Range Rover sat gleaming in the light. The silver sports utility vehicle had five doors and looked as if it had never been driven.

Miss Walker heaved a sigh.

Sherlock shot her smirk. “Even if you’d been able to access the garage, you wouldn’t have been able to break into the car. You’d need more than a brass candlestick for that. It’s armored.”

“I can’t drive Mycroft's car.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you expecting him to leap out of the back seat as you drive down the road? He may work for the British Government, but he isn’t capable of teleportation, last I checked.”

His friend pushed a series of buttons on the panel of the car door. There wasn’t even a handle. A green light flashed and the door opened, all on its own. Sherlock leaned over the grey leather seat and when he turned around, he had a plastic fob in his hand.

Sherlock tossed it to him. “As long as you have this on you, you’ll be able to access the car and start the engine."

“If I get into trouble for this, I’m going to throttle you when I get back.”

“If you were to get into trouble with Mycroft, you likely wouldn’t return at all. Don't worry. I believe he’s too busy today taking down some regime or meeting with his personal trainer to notice.”

John had to take a little leap to get into the vehicle, however once he slid into the seat, any feelings of resentment or concern dissipated. Mycroft appreciated luxury and his car was no exception. A green button glowed where the ignition was normally located. He pushed it, and the engine roared to life. The seat shifted, sliding him forward until his hands and feet were at a comfortable angle.

Bloody hell. The car was smart.

John fiddled with the side panel, and all the windows rolled down. That wasn’t right. He tried again, and all of them went up except for his side. Better.

Sherlock walked away to push a button on the wall, and the garage door opened.

John gestured for Miss Walker to approach.

She put her hand on the car door and leaned in. "What?"

“Listen. Sherlock isn’t particularly patient with people, but he really intends to help you. Try to ignore his dick behavior, if you can. Sometimes he just can’t help it."

“You mean he won’t help it,” she said.

He pursed his lips. She understood the man more than he’d expected. “Yes, well. I know it’d be justifiable homicide, but could you at least promise not to kill him until I get back?”

She smiled, but it didn’t meet her eyes. “I promise, but I imagine it’ll be the other way around.”

He shook his head. “Sherlock might hypothetically plan your death, but he wouldn't actually follow through with it. It's just a mind game of his.”

“Just wait a week, Doctor Watson. You might discover otherwise.” She gave his car door a pat and moved to stand next to Sherlock.

Right. Well, that was cryptic.

John returned Sherlock’s nod and Miss Walker's wave, then drove out into the sunshine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday! Please leave a review. I've got a nasty cold, and I need some cheering up!


	17. Chapter 17

John eased down the winding country road and squinted as the sunlight reflected off the wet pavement. It nearly blinded him in its intensity. He halted at the stop sign and poked around in the compartments above him. One opened, revealing a package of chocolate biscuits. He laughed. Of course Mycroft would have stocked up. Where was the cake?

He flipped open the glove compartment and found a rounded leather case. Inside was a pair of black sunglasses. He slipped them on, relieved nothing untoward happened. He’d half expected them to self-destruct or display some sort of computer overlay.

He headed down the main road. “Now I just need to find the quickest way to Balthorne Safe Deposit Centre,” he muttered.

“Balthorne Safe Deposit Centre is located at 575 Finchley Road in London,” replied a female voice. “Your estimated arrival time is fifty-eight minutes and thirty-five seconds.”

He goggled at the car. It was talking to him.

“Please turn left at the next intersection.”

He complied. How intelligent was it? “Could you please turn on the radio?”

The speakers began to play a complex classical piece. Right. What had he been expecting from Mycroft, rap or dub step?

A little car looked as if it was going to attempt to cut him off, but thought better of it. John grinned. It was nice being respected on the road. And it was nice to finally be driving again. Unlike other vehicles, this one actually felt safe. Sherlock had said it was armored. If anyone owned a safe vehicle, it was Mycroft Holmes.

John relaxed further back in his seat. “Please change the station."

“Would you like me to cycle through all pre-programmed stations?”

“Yes, please." He turned onto the main highway.

The classical station shifted to a boring radio show.

“Next, please.”

There was some static and then nothing at all.

Wait. There was something.

It was the sound of dripping water.

What the bloody hell?

Something tugged at his memory, and his hands clenched on the steering wheel.

“Do you have video available?” John asked through gritted teeth.

“Video connecting.” The dashboard monitor lit up, revealing black and white footage of the living room and kitchen of their bloody flat.

The only sound coming through the speakers was 221B’s leaky kitchen faucet. It had been dripping for the past two weeks.

John had half a mind to run the vehicle off the road and straight into a tree. It would serve the spying bastard right.

Except then he’d be stuck.

“Call Sherlock Holmes,” he said.

“Calling.”

His friend picked up on the third ring. “What?”

“Your bloody brother has got cameras monitoring our flat.”

“Of course he does.”

John’s mouth fell open. “You knew?”

“Yes. Every couple days I destroy them, and whenever we’re gone, he replaces them. It’s a game we play. Where are the latest ones?”

“The living room and the kitchen,” John said, slowing down as he approached a weaving lorry.

“Excellent. Now leave me alone. I’ve got work to do.”

The line went dead, and the sound of dripping water resumed.

“Next,” he ground out, more than ready to move on to a different station.

A woman giggled followed by a man’s muffled moan. Against his will, John’s gaze was drawn from the roadway to the screen. An older man had a blonde-haired woman in a business suit pressed up against a desk.

The man turned his head and John caught a glimpse of his profile.

Oh my god. Was that the Duke of York?

“Next,” he yelped, trying to focus on the road.

Rapid gunfire sounded. John jerked the wheel of the car, frantically looking out the window until he realized the noise was coming from the speakers. Refusing to look at the screen, he yelled out, “Turn it back to the classical station!”

Immediately, the soft, soothing sound of string instruments filled the air.

John sighed, his heart rate slowing. Perhaps this station wasn’t so bad after all.

***

Balthorne Safe Deposit Centre was tacked onto the side of a brownstone building clearly meant for flats, full up, judging by the lit windows surrounding it. The peeling white paint and faded red accents on the front of the centre lent a cheap feel to the place. John found it hard to believe the estate executor would have chosen such an insecure looking establishment. Although, perhaps that was the point. No one would expect to find Rebecca Frost's final music composition here.

John entered the building. A woman sat behind a desk at the far end of the small room. Fake plants filled one corner, and a set of shabby chairs sat beside a dirty window. The lights above him flickered as he walked towards the desk, and he almost tripped on the crumpled bumps in the ragged brown carpet.

The smell of acetone tickled his nose. He cleared his throat, but the receptionist was entirely too busy painting her fingernails a glittery blue to look up.

“Excuse me,” John said.

“Yeah?” One darkly penciled-in eyebrow arched.

“Mr. Henry Giles called ahead to authorize my accessing a safe deposit box for Rebecca Frost.”

“Huh. Well, I’ll have to check with my manager.”

“Alright." John watched her blow on her nails.

She wiggled her fingers. “This polish takes ages to dry, so you might as well call ‘em yourself.” The woman nodded at the grimy phone next to her.

John stared at her. “What? Are you sure?”

She nodded and smacked her gum. "Go on."

He picked up the phone. He’d have to stop at the chemist for some antibacterial wipes later.

“Please state your name and purpose,” a man said, his cultured tone at odds with the shabby surroundings.

“Doctor John Watson. I’m here for Ms. Rebecca Frost’s safe deposit box. Henry Giles should have called to authorize my visit.”

“Ah, yes. We’ve been expecting you. If you’d be so kind as to come through the side door beyond the potted plants, we’ll be more than happy to assist you.”

The line went dead.

Pursing his lips, John set the phone back in its cradle and headed towards the fake plants. He ducked around a dusty banana leaf, brushed past a prickling palm frond, then nearly smacked his nose into peeling drywall.

There wasn’t a door there at all.

Was he being filmed for some prank show? Was this Mycroft’s way of getting revenge for driving his car?

He flinched backwards as the wall opened inward, revealing a janitor dressed in a faded blue uniform. His brown hair stuck up in the back as if he’d just tumbled out of bed.

“Head on through, mate. Someone will let you in the next door,” the man said, leaning on his broom.

As John stepped by him, he caught a whiff of marijuana, the sickly sweet stench unmistakable.

Lovely staff here at Balthorne.

He walked down the dimly lit hallway and stopped at the end. He tried the handle of the door. It was locked. He waited for a few minutes, then jumped at a loud whumping noise. The whirring machine sounded familiar, but before he could place it, it ceased.

The door opened. A smiling man in a pin-striped brown suit stood waiting for him in front of a wall of dingy looking safe deposit boxes.

“Hello, Doctor Watson.”

This wasn’t the man he’d heard on the phone.

“I’m at the right place, aren’t I?” John ran a critical eye over the metal boxes. One or two appeared to be broken, the spot where the key would have gone completely drilled through. Very secure.

“Indeed, you are." His sales-man smile widened. “I’m Edward Wilkes, the manager here at Balthorne. Do you have your safe deposit key?”

John made a show of checking his trouser pockets, despite knowing exactly where the key was. “I must have left it in the car."

He wasn't about to trust this man.

“Now that’s a shame,” Mr. Wilkes said. He pulled out a cigar, bit off the end, and spat it onto the yellowing linoleum. The bit bounced across the floor to land in a corner full of more debris. The manager lit the cigar, then sighed out a puff of smoke.

John's nose twitched. "I'll just pop out and fetch it, yeah?"

The lazy congeniality in Mr. Wilkes' watery blue eyes abruptly sharpened.

The pin-striped suit and over-gelled hair had initially fooled John, but there was little doubt of it now.

The man was a shark.

John tensed, angling his body so he could keep an eye on the only exit in the room and the man across from him at the same time. He wished he’d brought his gun.

“Nonsense,” Edward said, “There's no need.”

While the shark appeared dangerous, he doubted the man expected violence from him. Most people tended to dismiss John as a potential threat as soon as they heard ‘Doctor’, which gave him a distinct advantage.

A doctor wouldn’t hurt anyone.

Ironic, since doctors were experts on pain and they hurt people all the time, although with an intention to heal, rather than to harm. But the knowledge was still there, ready to be used.

He could take the shark, if necessary.

The manager scratched at his ear as if irritated by an invisible fly. He knocked off some ash from his barely smoked cigar and shot him a half-smile, posture relaxing. “My apologies, Doctor Watson. We had to be certain of your identity before moving forwards, you understand.”

John frowned, more uneasy now than before.

The safe deposit wall slid aside with a whooshing sound, revealing the interior of a shiny metal lift, complete with red velvet carpet.

“Mr. Chesterfield, the man you spoke with on the phone, is expecting your arrival.” Edward gestured for him to enter the lift.

He hesitated. Common sense suggested it would be best to leave and return at another time, preferably with back-up.

“Don’t I need my deposit key?” John asked, in attempt to buy himself time.

Edward chuckled around his cigar, white teeth flashing. “We both know the key is located in your front coat pocket.”

John kept his face neutral though his heart rate sped up.

The man held up a small electronic device which looked like a paper-thin computer tablet. On it were two photographs of John, a front and profile shot. Except it wasn’t a normal photo.

It was an x-ray.

The safe deposit key glowed red in his coat pocket. What had they treated it with to make it do that? The other bits of metal on him lit up like it would on a normal x-ray. He could even make out the pieces of shrapnel still embedded in his left shoulder. There was a small dot on the side of his shoe. He lifted his foot and sure enough, there was a metal tack stuck in the bottom.

The equipment they’d used was extremely sensitive and quite expensive. But when had they scanned him? He mentally retraced his footsteps. Ah. The loud noise before he’d entered the safe deposit room. Clever.

He eyed the tiny lift. It had barely enough space to accommodate one person. If he stepped inside he’d basically be trapped like a sardine in a tin. It would be stupid to go in, especially not knowing what lay ahead. Stupid and dangerous.

The tremor in his left hand went still.

John smiled. Nodding to the shark, he stepped into the lift and the doors slid shut.

His stomach dropped as the lift descended. There were no buttons anywhere, just an overhead light, metal walls, and soft carpet. He’d expected them to pipe in some obnoxious sort of music, but the ride was silent. The lift slowed, then stopped, and the doors sighed open.

A tall man in a black suit stood waiting for him. “Welcome to Balthorne, Doctor Watson.”

This was the man he’d spoken to on the phone. “Mr. Chesterfield, I presume?”

“The one and only." Grey eyes glinted beneath spindly eyebrows.

John fell into step beside him. A long hallway stretched out before them. The floor and walls were made of steel-reinforced concrete. Fluorescent lights trailed off into the distance.

“I do apologize for the wait. We take the security of our client’s property very seriously. As Mr. Hiddleston requested our highest level of security, we were required to go above and beyond our usual identification process.”

John nodded. At least they hadn’t strip-searched him.

There were blinking cameras every few meters, staggered between faceless steel doors, free of knobs or handles. John wrinkled his nose. The air was stale, almost musty. As they rounded a corner a large machine on the wall switched on with a hum and cool air brushed across his face. It looked like a giant medical grade air filtration system.

Right. Regular air ventilation shafts would be out of the question. He eyed the machine, noting the similarities it shared with those used to sterilize the air in operating rooms. There was nothing quite like the threat of having all the oxygen sucked out of a room to make one want to behave.

Mr. Chesterfield stopped in front of a steel door, though it was beyond him how the man knew it was the right one. “Touch your key to the door, please.”

John complied and it hissed aside, sliding to disappear into the wall like on _Star Trek_. Whatever lay beyond was lost in darkness.

“I assure you, the room is completely private,” Mr. Chesterfield said. "I'll wait here for you."

John entered the room and the door automatically shut behind him. The lights flickered on and a small air unit on the ceiling came to life.

Oh good. Air was important.

The tiny room was even smaller than the lift. In fact, it didn’t deserve to be called a room at all. It was a bloody closet. A metal box sat on a matching metal shelf. There wasn’t a key hole or latch on it anywhere. Shrugging, he set the key on top of the box and the seamless lid lifted.

Inside lay a posh leather briefcase. He removed it and set it on top of the box. It actually had a place for a key, though the hole was square in shape. He grinned. Any four-year old would know what to do next. He set the cube attached to the key ring inside the slot. A perfect fit.

Except nothing happened. Frowning, he used the key ring as leverage to twist the cube a few times, but still nothing, not even a click of an encouragement. He tried to remove the cube, but now it refused to budge.

John sighed. So much for getting a peek inside. He was a glorified delivery boy, nothing more. Grabbing the briefcase handle, John walked to the door. It didn’t open.

Odd. There had to be some sort of sensor to allow him to exit, like the automatic doors at Tesco. The key ring clinked against the briefcase as he flapped his arms about.

Sherlock was right. He was an idiot.

The only way to leave was to repeat the same action he’d used to enter the room.

Bloody hell.

How was he supposed touch the cube to the door when it was currently lodged in the briefcase?

Folding back the handles on the case, John pressed the face-plate as close as he could to the door. The surface of the cube was a hairs-breadth away from making contact.

The door hissed open an inch then slid shut again.

Then the lights turned off and the air filtration system fell silent.

Bloody buggering hell.

The high tech security system had assumed he’d left. John banged on the door, but there was no response. No one would be able to hear him.

Surely Mr. Chesterfield would notice if he remained inside too long, right?

He made a concerted effort to slow down his breathing. But he was already running out of time. Only so much air had come in from the hallway and the filtration system had been on for only a few minutes.

Of course his mobile phone had no service.

The air quickly grew warm and thin. He felt a bit light-headed. Maybe he should try to beat his Angry Birds score or at the very least send a scathing text to Sherlock before he died. Once they removed his body, the message would go through.

The key ring glinted in the blue light of his mobile. Wait. Dropping his phone back into his pocket, he fumbled at the ring and tried to remove it from the cube. Cursing his lack of fingernails, John shoved the edge of his thumbnail between the coiled metal curves of the ring. He carefully rotated it, promising himself a nice quiet holiday if he got the damn thing off.

It snapped free from the cube.

John shoved the faceplate up against the door and this time it made complete contact. The door hissed open and he stumbled forward and onto his knees. They smarted against the concrete floor. He took in great gaping mouthfuls of air and his mental fog cleared.

Mr. Chesterfield gazed down at him. The man's spindly gray eyebrows rose high on his wide forehead. “Are you alright, Doctor Watson?”

“Am I alright?” John pointed an accusing finger at the door. “I nearly suffocated to death in there!”

***

Balthorne Safe Deposit Box Centre had been profusely apologetic over the matter, falling all over themselves to placate him. Mr. Chesterfield promised to adjust their security system, claiming this was the first time such a terrible event had occurred. They’d shoved a certificate in his hand for a high security lifetime safe deposit box, free of charge.

Like he’d be back.

As John was more than ready to be rid of the place, he refused their offer of medical attention. It wasn’t anything a shot of whiskey wouldn’t fix.

As he headed towards the parking lot, his mobile chimed.

_I’m afraid you’ll have to find alternative means of transportation, Doctor Watson. -MH_

Despite knowing it would be a fruitless effort, John returned to the spot where he’d parked the car. Sure enough, the Range Rover was gone.

Damn it.

He’d need half a bottle of whiskey at this rate.

His mobile chimed again.

_I need you to stop at Tesco. -SH_

He scowled at the phone, then at the empty parking lot.

A whole bottle then.

Clutching the briefcase handle, he headed back to Balthorne.

He knew exactly how they could repay him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a review!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not posting last week! I had a bit of computer trouble.

The rough, dry skin of the root peeled back easily, no match for the razor edge of the chef's knife. Sherlock diced a small portion of the exposed ginger, and a pungent, spicy fragrance permeated the air. He dumped it into a glass vial and stoppered it with a cork.

Mycroft's kitchen had every culinary apparatus imaginable. While it would have been more efficient to utilize the high-powered food processor, he'd wanted to avoid distracting Miss Walker from her meditation practice in the library. She had a difficult enough time focusing as it was. Besides, there was something enticing about wielding a sharp blade. One false move and he'd cut into his flesh or perhaps lose a finger. Far less boring that way.

Cooking appeared to be the only characteristic Mycroft had inherited from their mother. Well, that and baking. Considering his brother's fluctuating middle, he indulged in the activity far more than was healthy. For some odd reason, Mycroft derived great pleasure from preparing elaborate four-course meals.

What was the point? Food was fuel for the body. The body was transport for The Work. Why go to so much trouble? If Sherlock hadn't conducted multiple DNA tests as a teen, he would have still believed himself to be adopted. It would have made far much more sense.

John walked in, gaze drawn to the ingredients laid out on the cutting board. "You're not making lunch, are you?"

"Do you normally insert items into glass vials for lunch?" Sherlock grated a lemon, careful to catch just the zest.

"No."

"Then you've answered your own question."

John rolled his eyes and grabbed a copper pan off the rack above the island. He set it on the stove. Opening the fridge, he pulled out a loaf of bread and a rash of bacon. "You want a bacon roll?"

"No. You're not having one either."

"I really don't need my brain functioning at high capacity, Sherlock."

"Yes, you do. I'm putting you on the Frost case."

John stopped fiddling with the twist tie on the bread bag. "What?"

"As you said yesterday, I can't focus on the case and teach Miss Walker at the same time. So as much as it grieves me, the fun part falls to you."

"Where do I start?" John leaned back against the counter.

He nodded towards the open briefcase on the table. "Go through it all and look for anything unusual. Let me know what you find."

John pursed his lips. "Alright. But I'm still eating lunch."

"Fine, but you can't cook anything that releases any kind of aroma into the air."

"What? Why not?"

"Because it will adversely affect my next training session with Miss Walker."

Grumbling, John put the bacon away and brought out a block of aged cheddar. "Does this pass inspection?"

"Only if you don't grill or microwave it," Sherlock said, pouring crushed cloves into another vial.

Miss Walker entered the kitchen. She had this annoying sixth sense for knowing whenever a meal was being prepared. Her eyes lit up when she caught sight of John's cheese sandwich. Knowing it was better to nip her interest in the bud, Sherlock caught her eye and shook his head. Her face fell and she settled onto the bar stool, a long-suffering sigh escaping her mouth.

She eyed the glass vials. "What's cooking, Professor Snape?"

John snorted and set his sandwich down. "He's got his temperament and they've both got that brooding look about them."

Sherlock frowned. "What are you on about?" He suddenly found himself the object of Miss Walker's scrutiny.

She cocked her head to the side. "True, but his hair is far too curly and not nearly greasy enough."

What? His hair wasn't greasy at all.

John chuckled, then his voice lowered, acquiring a contrived ominous quality. "There will be no silly incantations or foolish wand waving in this class."

Miss Walker laughed.

Sherlock stared down at her.

She caught her breath and smiled up at him. "What? Don't tell me you're not a Harry Potter fan."

A quick glimpse into his Mind Palace revealed he had zero data pertaining to the topic at hand. "Since I'm unaware of what you're referring to, I can only wager it's related to some mindless media drivel."

Her mouth gaped open unattractively. "How can you not know about Harry Potter?"

"Don't bother," John said, after he swallowed a bit of sandwich. "He's a Muggle."

The odd word set her off again.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "If you're quite finished, it's time for class."

Picking up half the vials, he nodded at the rest. "Bring those with you."

Lips still twitching in amusement, she followed him into the library and set the bottles onto the coffee table. "I've been meaning to ask, what happened to your neck?"

"Nothing of consequence." It didn't surprise him that she had no recollection of the event. There would be little point in enlightening her now, as she'd waste both their time either apologizing or acting smug.

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back, then realized he'd adopted the same stance his father had used for his daily lectures. Irritated, he leaned a shoulder against the bookcase, knowing his poor posture would have driven the man mad. "The method of loci has been used since ancient Greek and Roman times. It's a mnemonic device for memory enhancement."

Her brows drew together. "How will that help me? You said I'm remembering too much."

"This is where your Mind Palace will differ from the usual design. You'll learn, like I have, to utilize visualization and spatial relationships to organize your memories. The echoes you're hearing will disappear once we develop a deletion process for you."

"Can you teach me how to delete first?"

He shook his head. "You have to separate and organize your memories before deleting them, otherwise you risk losing entire chunks of data."

Her hands clenched. "What do I care if I forget the sounds of the hospital or the last six months of traffic noise?"

She didn't understand. "Deletion won't only rid you of your audio memories. If you don't do it properly, you risk losing the entire memory itself and those attached to it. It requires precise focus, a surgeon's touch."

She stared at him. "You mean I'll be able to delete entire memories if I want to?"

He nodded. "I don't recommend doing so as it can lead to confusion due to a blank spot within a sequence of events. It's better to remove the useless data, the more specific the better. Also, the older the memory, the more difficult it is to eradicate."

"Could you replace deleted memories with false ones, to fill in the gap?"

The possibility had never occurred to him. "I suppose so. I imagine it would be difficult to integrate the false memory though. Why?"

Shadows lurked behind her green eyes. "Haven't you ever wanted to exchange a horrible memory for a happy one?"

He hesitated, caught off guard, and shoved away from the bookcase to stand in front of her. "It wouldn't be that simple. Some part of you would still know the memory to be false and I imagine that could cause problems, a kind of internal conflict. Would you really choose to believe a lie over reality?"

She shrugged and her eyes skated away from his. "I was just curious. How do I go about creating my Mind Palace then?"

"We'll be utilizing five rooms from  _Brackenwood_. Each room will act as an audio category to help you organize your memories. The library will hold conversations you've heard. The kitchen will hold sounds from the city. The music room will hold music. You'll also have a deletion room and a holding cell. The cell is basically a purgatory room where you can temporarily place memories while you decide how to deal with them."

"Where are those rooms?"

"Your deletion room will be your bedroom upstairs and the holding cell will be the shed out in the garden."

"Alright. Now what?"

"Take a few minutes to familiarize yourself with this room. Examine every nook, touch every piece of furniture. You need to have it ingrained into your memory. After you've finished, I'll test you."

Miss Walker made her way around the library. She ran a hand along the bookshelves, perused Mycroft's sizable liquor cabinet, and examined the fireplace mantel.

"Your time is up. Sit down."

She complied and he sat on the coffee table, their knees almost touching. "Close your eyes and concentrate on your spatial awareness of the room."

Her eyes fell shut.

He removed the cork from one of the vials. "I'm going to put something beneath your nose. I want you to breathe it in and tell me what you smell, then describe the room as you recall it."

Her brow furrowed. "Why?"

"Memory and the sense of smell are linked. Since we're short on time, I'm utilizing another one of your senses to help solidify the layout of your Mind Palace."

He placed the bottle near her face.

Her nose twitched. "It's whisky."

"Yes. Do elaborate."

She inhaled slowly. "I smell orange, wood spices, and burnished oak."

"Good. It's a limited release Macallan single malt scotch. Only one of 1,824 crystal decanters were released."

Mycroft would be livid over him opening it, but Sherlock considered it appropriate revenge for taking the Range Rover away from John yesterday. At least his friend had managed to acquire a paid rental car from Balthorne.

She wet her lips, eyes still closed. "Do I get a taste?"

His mouth quirked. "The last thing you need is alcohol. Now, describe the room for me."

"The fireplace is made of grey stone. Above it is an antique clock. Dark wood bookcases are spread out across the walls on either side, which then wrap around the rest of the room. The only walls not covered by books are the two windows, the liquor cabinet nook, and the double doors. There are two leather chairs, including the one I'm sitting on. There's a matching sofa and a shiny oval wood coffee table. In the far corner there's a world globe with brass accents."

"What about the floor and the ceiling?"

"The carpet is a rich cream and the ceiling is plain except for the exposed beams and recessed lighting."

"Now, keeping the picture of the library firmly in your mind, I want you to slip into the breathing pattern I taught you yesterday."

Miss Walker took a deep breath, then exhaled for a count of five. He waited a few minutes as she repeated the exercise, but it was clear she hadn't slipped into a mediative state. The rigid line of her back gave her away.

While it had initially been a struggle, she'd managed to achieve a lower level trance-like state late yesterday. The steps should have come back to her easily. "What's the problem?"

Her lips pinched and her eyes flew open. "I don't know. The bloody clock's endless ticking or the fact my stomach is unbearably empty. Or maybe it's that I'm unable to sleep at night because of the wretched radio jingle playing endlessly in my head. Pick one."

Sherlock allowed her irritable outburst to wash over him. "We can at least address the first issue." He went over to the mantel clock, opened the compartment in the back, and removed the battery. Once the pendulum came to a stop, he resumed his seat in front of her.

Her stomach growled audibly.

"I know you're hungry, but eating will only make both our jobs more difficult."

Her eyes narrowed. "How many people have you taught to build a Mind Palace?"

"You're the first."

She rubbed at her forehead. "Great. Then you have no idea what you're doing."

He drew back. "I've spent years perfecting my Mind Palace, Miss Walker. Believe me, I know how it works."

"Your only basis of understanding comes from your own experience."

He straightened. "That's not true. Mycroft and I were both taught the method of loci from an early age. While my Mind Palace has been customized over the years beyond its original basic structure, you're still quite capable of creating one yourself. I wouldn't be wasting my valuable time otherwise."

Her fingers tapped against the arms of the chair. "You're certain?"

Sherlock frowned. "What's the problem, Miss Walker?"

Light through the window caught on her face, revealing a sheen of sweat on her brow. It wasn't time for another nicotine patch. Not for another three hours at least.

"We don't have time for games." He stood. "If you can't trust me, then there's little point in us continuing."

A sigh left her lips. "I can't focus the way you want. The echoes usually plague me at night, but they just started up again, a few minutes ago. They've never come this early in the day."

He glanced at the clock he'd stopped. It was just after three. Well, that wasn't good news.

Tired green eyes met his. "This isn't going to work."

His chest tightened and irritation flared. Refusing to look at her, he moved to stand in front of the window. Sparse sunshine caught at the edges of low hanging clouds. "Giving up already? Fine. You know where the rooftop is."

He heard her stand and walk towards the door. There was a whoosh of air and then something hard smacked into his shoulder. He whipped around and raised an arm to block the next missile.

Miss Walker scowled and hurled another book, this time at his head. "You complete arse. I didn't say I was bloody giving up."

Sherlock dodged another book, then rushed her, pressing her back against the shelf so she had no room to lob any more priceless books at him. An ancient dictionary squished between them like a shield.

One corner of the leather volume dug into his chest. "Then what was the point of our conversation?"

She glared at him. "My point was that your meditation method isn't bloody working for me."

Oh. He shifted away from her. "Then we'll have to try a different approach."

Her angry expression faltered. "A different approach? How?"

"I'm a genius, Miss Walker. I'm sure I can devise a solution."

Her knuckles whitened around the dictionary. "Your ego knows no bounds."

Sherlock picked up the books scattered across the floor. "It's not ego, if it's the truth." He straightened the bruised spine of Plato's  _Republic_.

He returned to the coffee table and gestured for her to resume her seat across from him. "Since your internal focus is damaged, we'll need to introduce a stronger external stimuli as an alternative focal point."

"Like what?"

"Like me." He steeled himself. "Give me your hands."

Miss Walker slid her palms across her trousers until they rested on her knees, just within his reach.

He imagined she was more accustomed to skin to skin contact than he was. While John forced him to shake hands with grateful clients, the majority of his contact occurred with dead people. In both situations, he wore gloves.

There would be no protective barrier here.

Before touching her, he took a moment to slow his heart and respiration down to the level she would need for a meditative state. It irked him that it took a minute longer than usual. He took her hand and pressed it against his stomach. When she tried to pull away, he tightened his grip on her wrist. "This will help you emulate my respiration pattern."

Sherlock took a deep breath in through his nose then exhaled out his mouth so she could feel the natural rise and fall of his abdomen. He let go. Her fingers twitched against his shirt and his abdominal muscles clenched in reaction.

Shoving his discomfort aside, he took her other hand and slid her palm forward until her fingers aligned with the inside of his wrist. "Can you feel my radial artery?"

She pressed down and frowned. "Why is your pulse so slow?"

"I've had years of practice. Now, try matching your heart beat and breathing pattern to mine."

She closed her eyes and he shifted his hold so he could track her pulse. It beat rabbit-fast against his fingertips.

There could be any number of reasons for her accelerated heart rate. Stress, post withdrawal symptoms, nicotine side effects, anxiety, and discomfort. Attraction could be ruled out, as she'd just tried to brain him with Dante's  _Divine_   _Comedy_  a minute ago.

It was an effort to keep his own heart rate and breathing stable. Miss Walker was nothing like a corpse, her skin so warm he imagined the heat of her would soon crawl up his arm to spread through his whole body. Very disconcerting.

Fortunately, as the minutes passed with them breathing in tandem, her pulse slowed to match his. The tight line of her jaw and stiff posture eased.

"Good." He held the whisky beneath her nose again. "Describe the room to me. Take care to build it from the ground up."

She did. This time she recalled the gold brocade on the curtains, as well as the hairline fracture in one of the window panes.

The most difficult part lay ahead. Sherlock couldn't replicate the exact circumstances of how he came to build his own Mind Palace. He'd been six-years old when he'd begun the process, intent on harnessing the overwhelming influx of images in his head. A year later, Father and Doctor Baines put him through a grueling eight weeks of intensive study, altering his Mind Palace's original structure. Oddly enough, his memories of that time were fractured, leaving him with flashing lights, clammy skin, and the acrid taste of copper on his tongue.

It hardly mattered though. On day sixty he awoke to a world stark in its clarity, his Mind Palace as solid as the real world. The organized, data-filled rooms soothed his mind. The cold, hard facts were far easier to deal with than the complexities of daily social interaction. He spent most of his childhood in his head, only venturing out when he read the news article on the death of Carl Powers, a child a few years older than him. Though he hadn't solved the case until years later, it had set his feet on the path of murderers, shaped who he was today.

Allowing Miss Walker to breathe quietly for a minute, he decided on how to best to adapt his Mind Palace for her needs. "In order to anchor the room within your mind, you'll need to select something significant and bring it inside."

"Like what?"

Sherlock hesitated. His structure was built on icy logic, but hers couldn't be like that. There would be no separating her emotions from her neural pathways. "It can be anything as long as you have some sort of attachment to it. Perhaps a childhood toy, an award, or a favorite pet."

"Okay. I've got it."

"Good, now bring it into the room and establish it."

Thirty seconds later, she nodded.

He frowned. "Are you certain you've fully integrated it into the room?"

Her mouth quirked. "Oh yes. I'm quite certain."

His eyebrows rose. That was fast. A part of him was intensely curious to find out what she'd utilized. He ignored the impulse to question her further. "Now, take today's lesson and find a spot somewhere in the room to store it."

"Where?" Her voice was a whisper between slow breaths.

"Anywhere. Just ensure you're able to find it again."

"How about if I attach it to that gigantic leather book?"

Ah yes. The dictionary she'd intended to smash over his head. "That will do."

The light outside shifted to dusk as Sherlock guided her through filling the room with all the conversations she'd heard over the past six months. He moved away from her to test whether she could continue the trance-like state on her own. If anything, the loss of contact with him allowed her to slip even deeper into her Mind Palace. Her fingers twitched on her lap, closed eyes darting back and forth.

He nodded in satisfaction. They were making progress. The sooner Miss Walker organized her memories, the sooner they could delete the excess data that was causing her so much grief.

He looked out the window. Clouds swept past, revealing scattered, winking stars. The trees thrashed in the wind, certain to lose the last of their leaves tonight. He turned away when the steady inhale and exhale of her breathing quieted further.

Concern spiked through him. "Miss Walker."

There was no response. Her eyes were no longer moving, the rise and fall of her chest barely perceptible.

Sherlock pinched her arm.

She sucked in a startled breath and her eyes flew open. "What? I was working."

He let out a breath. "You've been at it for hours."

She glanced out the window at the now darkened sky and blinked. "It didn't feel that long."

"You'll find time flows differently in your Mind Palace." Sometimes he would end a session to find John had gone or the sun had risen unexpectedly. Other times it felt like he'd glimpsed eternity, only to discover a few minutes had passed. "That's enough for the day. You need to give your mind a break to process everything."

Her mouth twisted. "Why?"

"Rome wasn't built in a day, Miss Walker. Rushing will cause you problems. Over the next few days, you'll integrate the other four rooms into your Mind Palace. The final one, your deletion room, will likely take two days to complete, perhaps longer, as we'll need to create an erasure process that works for you."

He stood. "I suggest you spend a night in each of the rooms you'll be using for your Mind Palace, starting with this one."

"I'll have to sleep in the shed?" she asked, wrinkling her nose.

"The holding cell is the exception."

"What a relief." Grabbing the knit blanket off the back of the chair, she moved to the sofa. "When will I get to sleep in the kitchen?"

"We'll work there tomorrow." He'd need to do something about the fridge though. It was doubtful her self-control would last a whole night near temptation. A midnight snack could ruin everything.

She removed her high heels and situated herself more comfortably against the cushions.

Was she planning on sleeping in her clothes?

Why did he care?

Sherlock paused before he left the room. "Don't go into your Mind Palace unless I'm here with you."

She craned her head around to stare at him. "What? Why the hell not?"

"It's imperative I measure your progress."

Her head slumped back against the white pillow and red hair fanned out across it. "Fine."

Sherlock left, not in the least bit guilty for the lie he'd told her.

The truth was far too dangerous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review!


	19. Chapter 19

Sherlock slid the mug of tea across the kitchen table over to Miss Walker. He'd have liked to pour it on her head, but sadly, doing so wasn't likely to improve her mood. Pity. It would have done wonders for his.

She scowled. “I don’t want your bloody awful tea.” Her angry stare shifted to the chain and padlock on the fridge door.

Good god. The woman was absolutely fixated on food.

Besides having to block her access to the fridge, Sherlock had also boxed up all edible pantry items and secured them in the garage. John had been ready to pitch a fit when he saw the empty cupboards, but he’d come around after Sherlock had explained his reasoning.

John walked in, too focused on the papers in his hand to realize anyone else was in the kitchen. Still reading, he removed a key from his pocket and slid it into the padlock.

Miss Walker let out an angry huff, rather like an incensed bull.

John’s gaze jerked up to meet hers. “Oh. Hullo.”

“You bloody traitor." If looks could kill, John Watson would have been eviscerated on the spot.

The once brave army doctor blanched. “Erm, I’ll just come back later.”

“This is abuse,” she yelled, her face a mottled pink.

John scurried out the door.

Sherlock stared at Miss Walker over his steepled hands. “Why can’t you just cooperate and set aside this persistent obsession with food? There are people who fast for a month at a time. A few more days won’t kill you.”

The blazing look she sent him was far worse than the one she’d bestowed on John.

Sherlock would have been drawn, quartered, and burned.

Then perhaps eaten.

“If we’re going to stay on schedule, we’ll need to keep working.”

She stood up, jaw clenched.

“What are you doing?” he asked, dropping his hands.

“I'm taking a break,” she snarled, then marched out.

A minute later, the double doors to the library slammed shut.

Perhaps a break was in order.

John poked his head into the kitchen, expression wary.

“It’s safe,” Sherlock said, drumming his fingers across the table. “For the moment.” He wouldn't be surprised if she returned with the massive dictionary and bludgeoned them both to death.

His friend fidgeted, still holding the sheaf of papers in his hand.

“Have you found anything?” Sherlock asked.

John pursed his lips. “I’ve spent the last 48 hours reading through years of love letters between Rebecca and her beloved Eddie. Nothing odd so far, though I do feel like I'm invading her privacy.”

Sherlock grimaced. He’d rather instruct Miss Walker than put himself through such sickly sentiment. “Ms. Frost's not around to care. Besides, you should be thrilled. Those letters could provide you with excellent fodder for your next love poem to Abigail.”

His friend flushed. “How many times have I told you to stay away from my laptop?”

Sherlock spread his hands. “Choose something better than ‘In Arduis Fidelis’ as your password and I’ll comply.” How porous was the man’s brain that he had to use the motto scrolled across his Royal Army Medical Corps mug?

“Isn’t anything private or sacred to you?”

“No.”

Shaking his head, John grabbed a sandwich from the fridge. “One of these days, Sherlock, you’ll want privacy, and I swear on all that is holy that I will do everything I can to ensure you don’t get it.”

He rolled his eyes at the empty threat.

John spoke around a mouthful of cheese and bread. “Has it occurred to you that Miss Walker might perform better with food in her system? Not everyone is like you.”

His lip curled. “No one is like me.”

“Then why do you insist on projecting what works for you onto her?”

Sherlock frowned. “I’m instructing her the best way I know how.” He glanced at the clock. Break time was over.

He stalked into the library and found her stretched sideways on the sofa with a pillow over her face. Perhaps she'd screamed into it or tried to smother herself.

He knocked the pillow away. “If you’re quite finished with your temper tantrum, it’s time to move on.”

She remained silent and still.

Too still.

He gripped her wrist. Her skin was cool, pulse sluggish.

A secondary effect of the Mind Palace was it allowed the body to disconnect from hunger and thirst, even pain if one went deeply enough. He’d used it for that very purpose before, but she was a novice. The mind-body connection could misinterpret the intent to escape as a command to shut everything down - permanently.

One could essentially will oneself to death.

He wasn’t about to let her take the easy way out.

Steadying her chin in one hand, he slapped her across the face, hard enough to sting his palm. No response. Her cheek refused to redden, an indication of a drastic drop in blood pressure.

He went cold. His chest tightened so hard it felt as if his sternum would crack beneath the pressure.

“John!" He picked her up in his arms and carried her down the hallway.

His friend came out of the living room, eyes wide. “What happened?”

“There’s no time. Do you have an Epi pen?”

“Yes. It’s in one of the kits I have upstairs.”

“Go get it, but first open the back door for me.”

“Where are you-?”

“A secondary solution,” Sherlock said, before exiting the house.

He strode across the grass towards the pond. A chill breeze swept through the air and golden birch leaves fluttered onto the water. Sherlock's feet sank into the wide, muddy shoreline.

He jostled Miss Walker, but she didn’t so much as flutter an eyelash.

Fine. She'd ruddy asked for it.

He tossed her into the shallow end and she hit the water with a splash.

He counted three seconds, knowing he’d have to go in after her if she didn’t immediately surface.

Icy spray shot into the air as she surged upwards, spluttering. Brown water streamed down her face and she gasped, gazing at him with shocked eyes. "What the hell?"

His chest expanded, then contracted, the odd sensation almost painful. A flush of heat, fueled by anger followed. “We had an agreement.”

Profanity poured out of her mouth as she tried and failed to get to her feet. The waist-deep water hid the stickiest muck imaginable. Waves lapped at the toes of his shoes as she flailed about.

She stopped, out of breath, and wrenched her wet hair out of her face. "Get me out of here!"

Sherlock folded his arms. “Consider this just punishment for breaking the one rule I gave you. Find me when you’re ready to listen.”

As he turned away, there was a loud squelching sound, and he found himself jerked backwards by his belt.

The frigid water closed over his head and tore the breath from his lungs. When he broke the surface, she was waiting for him on the muddy shoreline.

“What in the bloody hell is wrong with you? I was practicing, you arsehole!”

A handful of muck hit him square in the face. Sherlock wiped it away and the heat simmering inside him blazed into an inferno.

Crimes of passion suddenly made complete sense to him.

He was going to kill her, preferably by shoving mud down her throat.

She readied another throw, but slipped. He lunged forward, caught her leg and yanked. She shrieked as he dragged her halfway back into the water. She kicked out at him with her other foot and he dodged, barely avoiding being smacked in the face.

As he righted himself, his heart beat a rapid staccato, his vision tunneling to focus only on the mud-covered woman crouched defensively before him. She kicked out again, but this time he was ready for her. Sidestepping, he locked his elbow around her lower leg and lifted. Before she could slam her arms down to break his hold, he leaned into her, driving her weight back onto one heel.

His left foot darted out, and he swept her leg out from under her, knocking her to the ground. He crouched over her, pinning her arms to her sides. “Your body was shutting down.”

Her response was to try to knee him in the groin. He narrowly avoided it by jerking sideways, but took her with him. They rolled across the muddy shoreline in a thrashing tangle of limbs. While trying to grab for her arm, his hand slipped across her mud-slicked skin to land on her chest, accidentally cupping her breast.

His mind went utterly blank for two stunned seconds.

The distraction cost him.

She slid her knees up to her chest and kicked him off her. He stumbled backwards, then staggered as both his feet sank into a bog hole. His jiu jitsu instructor hadn’t prepared him for this particular circumstance, nor the prior one for that matter.

She launched herself at him. One knee drove into his solar plexus and the other into his ribs. He found himself gaping up at the sky like a stunned fish, the breath knocked out of him. She knelt on his arms and try as he might, he couldn’t move his legs, his bloody shoes too firmly stuck in the mud.

She grasped the front of his shirt and yanked him upwards so they were nose to nose. Her furious green eyes were the only spot of color, the rest of her covered in slimy brown. “You lied to me. Why?”

He wheezed in a breath. “You didn’t need to know.”

Her eyes turned to slits. “Wrong answer.”

She scooped up a handful of mud.

A jet of water hit them both in the face.

John stood on the edge of the pond, garden hose in hand, his mouth a grim line. “Stop.”

She scrambled off him and staggered to her feet. “He threw me into the pond.”

The army doctor held up a hand, censure in the lines of his face. “I don’t want hear it. You’re both adults and you were brawling in the mud - like bloody animals. You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

“I can’t say that I am,” Sherlock said with a glare.

John sprayed him in the face again.

It made him gasp. The water was even colder than the pond, its source coming up from the dark depths of the well.

John turned to Miss Walker. “Hose yourself off and go inside.”

The water cut through the grime covering her, revealing her torn blouse. Buttons were definitely missing, the gaps showing the shiny, black beads of her bra and the swell of her breasts. It was positively indecent the way her clothing clung to her like a second skin. Sherlock wrenched his gaze away, still short of breath from the fight.

After handing the hose back to John, she limped her way back to the house.

His friend rounded on him. “What on earth possessed you to do such a thing?”

Sherlock’s hands clenched. “She nearly killed herself by entering her Mind Palace alone.”

“And you thought you’d help the process along by bloody drowning her?”

“Please. The shock of the cold water was sufficient enough to bring her around.”

As he hauled himself upright, his shoes gave a final squeeze, then released him, and he stumbled backwards, his feet now bare. He scowled. Those had been his favorite pair.

“Tell me one thing, Sherlock. Did you warn her at all about the danger involved?”

He straightened. “What good would it have done?”

If anything, John looked even more furious, the vein on his forehead popping out. “She’s hung on your every word for the last two days, while subsisting on a single piece of toast, and you still couldn’t trust her with the truth?”

“I wasn’t about to allow all the time I’ve invested in her go to waste.”

“No.” John shook his head, his eyes fierce. “I know you. You’re not that cold.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night." Sherlock raised a hand to rub at his aching ribs.

“I don’t care how you do it." John's words were low and intense. “But you’re going to fix this.”

The man had to be joking. “There’s nothing to fix.”

“If you believe that, you really are an idiot,” John said, tossing the hose at his feet. “I’ll leave the first aid kit in the kitchen. You can patch up your own damn self.”

His friend stomped back to the house and a minute later a slamming door cut through the air.

The anger and frustration that had consumed him faded, replaced by a hard knot in the pit of his stomach. The ache of it competed with the throbbing of his ribcage.

Perhaps Miss Walker had injured him more grievously than he’d thought.

***

It was 2:00am. Sherlock stood outside the kitchen, gaze fixed on the light shining beneath the door. His ribs beat in time with his pulse. He desperately wanted to grab a bag of ice and a handful of paracetamol, but _she_ was in there.

He’d gone into his Mind Palace to escape the pain, but the damn knot in his stomach refused to leave. If his blood pressure hadn’t been higher than normal, he would have suspected internal bleeding.

While he couldn’t pinpoint the reason for his discomfort, one thing was certain. It was all her fault.

This was ridiculous. He wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of keeping him out of the kitchen and away from the first aid kit.

He swept through the door.

Miss Walker had her foot propped up on the kitchen table. Her ankle was wrapped and an ice pack rested on it. The neatness of it all spoke of John’s work. Splendid.

Her head tilted to the side. “You must have an extremely high pain tolerance.”

Refusing to acknowledge her presence, he opened various drawers to locate a plastic bag.

“You probably have a hairline fracture from my knee driving into your ribs, yet you’ve spent over nine hours without any kind of painkiller.” She picked up the bottle of paracetamol and shook it, rattling the pills.

He caught her satisfied smile out of the corner of his eye and dropped the bag onto the counter. “I assure you, if I hadn’t been stuck in the mud, our altercation would have ended quite differently.”

“You’re just pissed that I won." She leaned back dangerously in her chair, an insolent grin on her face.

He glared at her. “This isn’t a game.”

Her smile disappeared. “Isn’t it? What, with you training me, but only telling me bits and pieces of what you think I should know?”

He opened the freezer door, jaw clenched so tight his teeth protested.

Her voice was low and angry. “I trusted you, and you bloody lied to me.”

Something within him snapped and he spun around, scowling. “So, what? I lied. I’d do it again, if necessary. I refuse to apologize for protecting you.”

His own words shocked the very breath from him.

She stared at him, wide-eyed, the silence between them so deep, he imagined he could hear the ticking of the clock in the next room.

He turned away and opened the door a second time. The chill air felt welcome against the overheated skin of his face. Although the very neurons in his brain protested on principle, the evidence was far too damning. How could he have missed his own degradation? John had been right. Despite his best efforts to remain aloof, it appeared he really wasn’t that cold after all.

The revelation jarred him, as if the earth had tilted on its axis.

His movements robotic, he filled the bag with ice and shut the freezer door.

She shoved away from the table and hobbled over to him, her face unreadable. “Here.” She offered him the medicine bottle.

He took it from her, poured himself a glass of water, then swallowed two tablets.

As he rinsed the glass, he heard her sigh. For once, it didn’t ring of irritation, the sound softer somehow.

“Take off your shirt.”

The glass slipped from his fingers, clinking against the bottom of the sink. He stared at her. Surely he’d misheard.

She held up a bandage roll, one brow raised. “While I normally wouldn’t be opposed to you suffering through the night, I don’t want my training to be adversely affected.”

He blinked. She still wanted him to teach her? Even after admitting he’d lie to her again?

One hand went to her hip. “Are you reneging on our deal?”

Her body language would have had greater impact if she hadn’t needed to lean against the counter to take the weight off her injured foot.

“No,” he replied, still baffled by her response.

“Good. Now, take off your shirt.”

Logically, he had no reason to hesitate. As John had refused to give him any kind of medical aid, it would be idiotic of him not take her up on the offer of assistance. Yet, he still found himself reluctant.

Her eyes gleamed, catlike, in the low kitchen lighting. “Don’t worry, Mr. Holmes, I’m not going to ogle you.”

His fingers moved of their own accord, unbuttoning his shirt. He set it on the island.

An assessing gaze skated across his shoulders and down his chest. A breath hissed out of her. “Damn."

He swallowed, uncertain whether she was remarking upon his injury or the sight of him shirtless.

Not that he cared.

Mottled bruising covered one side of his ribcage, the surrounding tissue red and swollen.

“Did John take a look at this?”

He shook his head, unsettled by the sudden shift to first name familiarity. The change had likely occurred when his so-called friend had doctored her up. Sherlock had only saved her life multiple times. Apparently, an ankle wrap counted for more.

Cool fingers lightly grazed the left side of his ribs, and he flinched.

He reached out to catch her wrist, but she slapped his hand away. “I need to see if you’ve broken anything.”

“I assure you, they’re merely bruised.”

Her green eyes glittered. “Excuse me if I don’t take your word for it. Deep breath in, please.”

He did so, and she ran a hand over the injured area. Despite the pain, the touch of her palm soothed the angry heat of his skin, her hand still cold from holding her ice pack.

“There’s nothing broken,” she said, finally drawing back.

“What a surprise." He lifted his arms to make it easier for her to wrap the tape around his chest. Gooseflesh broke out in the wake of her touch. “How do you know about rib injuries?”

“Kick boxing class. My instructor requires everyone to take a thorough first aid course.”

“Did he also teach you how to hot-wire cars?”

Her mouth quirked. “No, I learned that on YouTube.”

He shook his head, amused.

After tucking in the corner of the bandage, she stood back and surveyed her work. “That’ll do.”

She’d done well, the lines careful, the tape not too tight. “Thank you.”

Her eyebrows rose. “You’re welcome.”

He picked up his bag of ice, then dropped it back onto the counter, decision made. He removed a key from his pocket and offered it to her.

She took it, frowning. “What’s this for?”

“The fridge." He slipped his shirt back on.

“Is this some kind of test?” Her expression went wary.

“No.”

“Then why are you giving it to me?”

In this, she deserved the truth. “Digestion doesn’t appear to interfere with Mycroft’s ability to focus, only mine.”

“What?” She glanced between him and the fridge. “Are you saying I can eat?”

He shrugged, then winced at the pain it caused. “With a sample size of only two, it’s difficult to predict the effect food will have on you.”

She took a hesitant step towards the refrigerator, then stopped. “Damn it.” She held out the key to him. “Quick, take it before I change my mind.”

Flabbergasted, he pocketed it. He’d expected her to dive in head first or perhaps take up lodging inside. “Why?”

“Better to be safe than sorry. I can last another four days as long as we don’t do anything too physically taxing.”

“I don’t think I’ll be tossing you into the pond anytime soon.”

She cast him a sidelong glance. “What a shame. That’s the most fun I’ve had all week.”

That startled a chuckle out of him, and she grinned.

“You’re unusual, Miss Walker." A smile tugged at his mouth.

Her eyes crinkled in amusement. “Likewise, Mr. Holmes.”

While he refilled his half-melted bag with fresh ice, she hobbled back to her seat, propped her foot up on the table, and settled a blanket over herself. “Good night.”

Sherlock left the kitchen and made his way upstairs, the sound of John’s snoring carrying down the hall. It was only after he laid down in bed that he realized the knot in his stomach had dissipated.

Curious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of my favorite chapters to write. Please let me know if you enjoyed it!


	20. Chapter 20

The letter slipped from John’s fingers and fluttered to rest on the kitchen table. He blinked away the burning sensation behind his eyes.

Rebecca Frost and Edward Cornwall had met at a university concert. It had been her debut as a composer and Edward had sought her out, eager to meet the young woman behind the enchanting music. Romance blossomed, but they were soon separated by Eddie’s deployment aboard the _HMS Belfast_. Unlike most long distance relationships, their time apart only seemed to strengthen their bond, the numerous letters between them a testimony to the deep regard they held for one another. A week before his return for their wedding, Eddie lost his footing on the storm-tossed deck and hit his head.

Despite John's reluctance to read it a second time, his gaze was drawn once more to the earnest man’s words.

_You would have laughed at me, darling, and rightly so, though I can only blame you for my lack of coordination. I couldn't help but be distracted by the thought of you dressed in white, our ink-stained hands joined together, never to be parted. Who can blame me? I am but a-_

The final word was illegible, blotted out by a dark pool of ink.

A second letter, typed and sterile, with the Royal Navy emblem decorating the top, peeked out from beneath Eddie’s correspondence.

_We regret to inform you of the passing of Commander Edward Cornwall._

Eddie had collapsed, his life and letter cut short by an epidural hematoma.

According to the Navy's record of events, Eddie had laughed off the injury and insisted he was fine. If only he'd gone to the sick bay, he could have been treated. Instead, the young man unknowingly spent the last moments of his life writing to his bride-to-be. Blood collected in his skull, causing a rise in intracranial pressure, which fatally damaged his brain.

John sighed then carefully placed the letter back into its envelope. He reached into the leather briefcase and lifted out a gold necklace. Two wedding bands hung from the braided cord and clinked softly together. The diamond on one band sent sparkling motes across the walls. He gently set it aside.

Rebecca continued to write letters to Eddie. They were raw, full of anguish, her curving penmanship traded in for slashing angles that tore at the parchment. She cursed at him, railed at him for his clumsiness, even threatened to follow him into death. If it hadn’t been for her music and a steady stream of antidepressants, she likely would have.

Next came the stack of awards.

Rebecca had channeled her grief into music, earning her first award a mere three months after Eddie’s death. Her obsessive focus paid off, catching the ear of David Lean, a film producer who was in search of fresh talent. David signed Rebecca on to compose the scores for his next three films, and her resulting success skyrocketed her to fame and fortune.

And yet Rebecca's letters only spoke of an overwhelming sense of loneliness and sorrow, of an emptiness that recognition and money couldn’t fill. Her company was sought out by many eligible bachelors, but all were refused.

_I don’t care if it’s mad. I prefer correspondence with you over living, breathing men. They speak of music, but there is no light shining in their eyes when they do. Not like with you. Don’t argue with me. You know it’s true. You’ve utterly ruined me, Eddie. My heart aches for you, even after all this time._

John swallowed. Sherlock would have been far better suited to this task. The man had no qualms about invading another’s privacy. He would have been unaffected by the tragedy of lost love and Rebecca’s misery-laden words. John wasn’t like that. Sometimes he wished he was. It would be nice to not always wear his heart on his sleeve for all the world to see.

There was one last item in the briefcase. It was a thick scroll tied with a ribbon. He hoped it held answers, or at least some hint regarding Rebecca’s death.

Any remaining hope he’d had fled at the sight of the unrolled paper. Complex musical notations cascaded across the parchment. There were dots and ties and bars and odd symbols he’d never seen before. How was he supposed to decipher this on his own? He’d only played clarinet for four years in school. And while he might have been able to sound out _Ode to Joy_ still, this composition was leagues beyond him. The tightly written musical notations and the sheer volume of it overwhelmed his eyes. How could someone have this rattling around in their brain and not explode? Then again, perhaps writing it all down reduced the pressure, like steam from a kettle.

Sherlock turned to musical composition when particularly frustrated by a case. This was always a relief to John because the distraction deterred Sherlock from wearing a hole in John’s patience with his ever-increasing obnoxious prattle. Said prattle was more often than not directed at John and always at his expense, as if Sherlock had to reassure himself that his powers of deduction were still operating at optimum levels. Which they were. Always. Several times John had considered drugging his friend’s tea, but had binned the idea on the off-chance that it would spark the addiction that had once plagued the man. Nothing was worth that, not even a few hours of blessed silence.

Except for the low hum of the fridge and the soft pitter-patter of rain against the window pane, all was quiet. Sherlock and Vivian had left for the shed hours ago, something about designing a purgatory storage room for the mind. John shook his head. If it had been anyone other than Sherlock Holmes, he would have been certain any lessons going on had nothing to do with the mind, especially in a private place like a shed. John fondly recalled going over to Shannon Tyler’s house to study for their history class. The spine of the book had dug into his back as they’d sprawled across the sofa in her parent’s basement, snogging like mad. He’d never been so close to a textbook in his life.

Only Sherlock Holmes would take an attractive woman into a shadowy shed on a rainy day for legitimate lessons.

Breakfast had been an odd affair. He’d fully expected to have to play referee after yesterday’s brawl, but to his surprise Sherlock and Vivian had acted as if nothing had happened. In fact, both had been unusually quiet. Vivian had nearly nodded off over her tea, yet when Sherlock had passed the sugar to her, instead of acting affronted, she’d scooped up a large spoonful as if it was the most natural thing in the world. There was still an undercurrent of tension between the two, but nothing like the simmering anger and frustration from before. Perhaps the mere act of throttling one another had solved the problem, though John suspected that was an oversimplification of the situation. Perhaps they’d had a heart to heart last night. Yeah. Unbloody likely.

Flipping through the composition pages, he hoped something would miraculously stand out to him as important. Unfortunately, there were only more twisting lines of music -that is, until he reached the final page.

Small misshapen circles stained the parchment and ink bled around the edges. Teardrops. Or some other droplets of moisture had done it. Hadn’t Giles said something about Rebecca having tears on her face when he’d found her slumped over her last composition? Not only that, but the line of music on the bottom of the page looked nothing like the rest.

It was the same chord repeated six times. C-F#-C. Odd. John did a quick search on his laptop and downloaded a free composition training program so he could hear it played aloud. The resulting sound that issued from the computer was so jarring it set his teeth on edge. It was bloody awful, definitely not what he’d expect from an experienced composer.

A red window popped up on the screen with a large ‘I’ in the top left corner.

_This chord contains a tritone, commonly referred to as ‘The Devil’s Chord’ or ‘The Devil’s Interval’. A highly dissonant sound, it’s often used to evoke an ominous feeling for listeners. In 1849, Franz Liszt utilized the discordant sound in his composition, Dante’s Sonata, to suggest the wailing of lost souls in Hell. It’s a popular myth that The Devil’s Chord was banned from the early church. It’s more likely that the harsh notes were distracting to parishioners, jarring them from solemn contemplation and worship._

Distracting? Grating and painful was more like it. It was no wonder it hadn’t been used in church. No one would have gone. John looked back down at the parchment. Next to each of the chords was an odd, black rectangle with a vertical tail off its bottom right corner. It had to be some strange sort of note value. He did a search on musical duration symbols and found a helpful glossary with pictures. He scrolled down the line. There was a whole note with lines on either side known as a _breve_ and a hollow square known as a _longa_ , but no sign of the filled in rectangle. At the bottom of the page was a link for rare note values.

John clicked on it and there it was. Used during the 14th century, the duration was twice the length of a _longa_ and six times the length of a _breve_.

It was commonly referred to as a _maxima_.

John’s mouth fell open. Bloody hell.

Rebecca Frost had left a message after all. And apparently, it had do with the devil and her car, which made absolutely no sense at all.

His first instinct was to immediately take the information to Sherlock, but his friend had requested he and Vivian not be disturbed. He’d have to wait then. Or did he? Sherlock had handed the investigation over to him. Why not continue? He’d made it this far on his own.

John stood and grabbed his coat. He might not know where to find the devil, but the _Maxima_ was parked in front of the manor. It was as good a place to start as any.

Despite the protection of his coat and the short trek to the car, he still somehow managed to get damp from the rain. Sliding into the passenger seat, John grimaced at the sight of the drenched leather and shards of glass still covering the driver’s side. Vivian had done a thorough job of smashing the window in with the brass candlestick. Not to mention the back of his head. The knot was still sore. He shrugged out of his coat and used the edge of it to sweep the glass off the seat, then wedged the garment between the visor and the panel of the door, effectively blocking the empty window. At least the rain couldn’t come inside now.

He was becoming downright resourceful.

Gooseflesh broke out across his skin. It was a bit chilly. No matter, he’d just pop the heater on. He put the key in the ignition and turned it. Nothing happened.

Bugger. The bloody battery was still beneath the back seat. Sherlock had hid it there to keep Vivian from escaping. Back into the rain then.

He exited the car, grabbed the battery out of the back, opened the bonnet, and reconnected the wires. Hoping they weren’t oxidized, he scurried back inside and turned the ignition. The Bentley purred to life.

Yes! He put the heater on full blast and feeling slowly came back into the numb skin of his fingers and face. He’d need a hot cuppa after this rainy, cold October day. And some biscuits. Lemon ones. Flipping on the overhead light, John surveyed the interior of the car. Except for the recent damage, it looked perfectly ordinary.

“You see, but you do not observe,” John parroted in a falsetto voice. It was one of Sherlock’s favorite lines, just a step below, “You’re an idiot.”

“So, what am I not observing?” he murmured. He ran a hand across the dashboard and steering wheel, then fiddled with the stereo system which was, naturally, set to classical. Everything appeared normal. He opened the glove compartment and sorted through a stack of papers which included a registration card, insurance documentation, and a petrol usage log. There was a pen, an eye glass repair kit, and a tire pressure gauge.

He moved to the back and examined the floor, the space beneath the bench seat, and the ceiling. Nothing. Except for the dirt and moisture that had come in, everything was in order. He’d better check the boot to be sure. He hunched forward beneath the lip of the boot, trying to keep the rain off him as best he could. An interior light illuminated the spacious compartment. There was a spare tire, tire iron, first aid kit, and set of flares. Blast. He slammed the lid shut and slid back into the front seat of the still-running car.

He didn’t know what he was supposed to be looking for or if he was even on the right track. Before she died, Rebecca’s mind had been clouded by anesthesia. She’d been fearful, in tears. The message she’d left might not be message at all but merely the confused scribblings of a dying woman.

John scuffed a foot across the floor mat in frustration. The corner peeled up as it caught on the sole of his shoe. He hadn’t looked there. He lifted the heavy duty mat up. Of course there was nothing beneath it except the unblemished carpet, like everywhere else. He ducked beneath the steering wheel and caught the edge of the other mat.

This one was stuck.

He removed his mobile and flipped the torch app on, setting it on the seat so the beam of light aimed at the floor. The thick rubber mat didn’t look any different than the other one. Half-hanging off the seat, he ran his fingertips along the border of the mat. Something round, cold, and hard brushed across his skin. He tapped it with a fingernail, tracing its edge. Six evenly spaced black tacks secured the mat into place. The dark color of the metal blended in perfectly with the mat. Perhaps the driver’s feet had a tendency to catch on the rubber and someone had tacked it down as a solution. Then again, perhaps not.

John grabbed the eyeglass repair kit out of the glove compartment and removed the miniature flat-head screw driver. Catching the edge of the screw driver against the metal of the tack, he pried them up one by one. Peeling back the mat, he tossed it onto the passenger side, impatient to see what was hidden beneath. His breath came out in a hiss.

Nothing. Just the bloody carpet. He wrenched himself back up into a seated position and slammed his hands against the steering wheel. The braided leather stung his palms. What a bloody waste of time. Scowling, he snatched up the leather mat to fling it back onto the floor when something odd caught his eye. There was a faint rectangular outline on the bottom of the heavy mat. He dropped it into his lap and examined it more closely.

His heart sped up. It wasn’t an outline at all, but a finely cut slit in the rubber. John stuck the screw driver into the slit and lifted, peeling back the large rubber flap. Nestled inside the hollowed out mat was a thin rectangular shape covered in cling film.

He’d bloody found something! Tearing at the plastic revealed a thin, black and white notebook. He opened it and sighed. More music, this time in pencil. He frowned. The shape and style of each note differed from Rebecca’s work. The sweeping lines were angled oddly and there were repeated graphite smudges across the page. Above the composition was the name ‘Stacy’ and beneath it, the initials N.H.

Who the hell was N.H. and why had Rebecca gone to so much trouble to hide the book? John flipped through the pages, but the rest were blank, the composition only covering ten pages or so. He paused when he reached the back cover. There was a folded sheet of paper slipped inside the back pocket. He opened it.

_00L213859 19J3722E 98F63F75R17Y 190214AG_

_00A213859 87W6093I 31L73K60E30S ICN51938_

_00J213859 36S0506M 75I90T81H09E 48KK96BB_

_00R213859 16B0430A 20R20N06E47S BES1S603_

John blinked a few times but the computer printout still refused to make sense. Something told him whatever it was, it was important. He turned off the car, placed the paper back into its pocket, and slid the notebook between his jumper and shirt.

It was time to consult Sherlock, whether he wanted to be interrupted or not.

John dashed inside the manor, across the other side of the house, and out to the back, jogging up the path to the stone shed. A weak light glowed through the single window. Despite his speed, his hair was still plastered to his head by the time he arrived. Rain ran into his eyes. He pulled open the broad wooden door and stepped inside. There were two large lamps overhead, but neither were turned on. Instead, a beam of yellow light spilled out from beneath a closed door on the other side of the shed.

This half of the shed was devoted to landscaping equipment. John smiled as he caught sight of a riding lawn mower. His grandfather used to take him and Harriet for rides when they were kids. Following the light, he picked his way around a gas edger, aerator, and an ancient tiller. The steady cadence of Sherlock’s voice, clearly in instructing mode, carried through the door. There was the murmur of a female voice, then silence. John reached for the handle, but the door opened, revealing a scowling Sherlock Holmes.

“Didn’t I tell you not to interrupt?”

“Yes, but I’ve found something important." John stepped around his friend and into the room.

It smelled of cloves. Vivian waved tiredly at him from her perch on a dusty wooden box. One of the glass vials he'd seen in the kitchen a few days ago sat beside her. A long table stretched wall to wall and terra cotta flower pots, a bag of fertilizer, and a watering can covered its surface. The soft yellow light came from a low lit gas lantern.

“How did you hear me coming?” John asked, removing the notebook from his jumper and setting it on the table. “The sound of the rain should have drowned me out.”

Sherlock’s frown deepened. “I didn’t hear you. Miss Walker did.”

John cast a questioning glance her way and Vivian shrugged. “Your shoes were squeaking.”

He rocked back and forth on his heels, but he couldn’t hear a thing. Perhaps it was time he got his hearing checked.

“What have you found?” Sherlock asked, reaching for the notebook.

John slammed a hand down on top of it. “Wait. How I found it, is important too.”

Sherlock sighed. “Fine. Hurry up then.”

“I discovered a message on the last page of Rebecca’s final composition. There were teardrops on it, just like Giles said. At the bottom was a series of the same set of notes. C-F#-C.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “The Devil’s Chord. Interesting.”

John’s nostrils flared. “Right. Anyway, next to each of the chords was a rectangle with a vertical tail in the bottom corner. I did a search online and-”

“-Found it to be called a _maxima_ , no doubt, which led you to the car, where you found this.” Sherlock snatched up the composition book and sniffed it. “Rubber. Wedged beneath the floor mat. Not a very good hiding place. What did you do, find it by accident?”

John gritted his teeth. “Sometimes, I really hate you.”

Sherlock smirked. “I know.”

“We should start a club, John." Vivian's heels tapped a rhythm against the box. “I’m sure there’d be loads of members.”

John chuckled. “Not a bad idea. Sgt. Donovan could be our spokeswoman. She hates his guts.”

“I’m sure Mycroft would happily sponsor you,” Sherlock said, as he flipped open the notebook.

Vivian’s nose wrinkled, but she remained silent. Perhaps she disliked the other Holmes out of principle. John disliked the man for a number of reasons, though principle was as good enough as any in Mycroft’s case.

Sherlock ran a finger over the initials beneath the titled composition, then flipped to the back of the book, quickly locating the pocket. He spread open the page and his gaze flitted back and forth across the text.

“You were right.”

John’s eyebrows rose and he cupped a hand around his ear. “Sorry, what was that?”

Vivian snickered.

Sherlock removed a pen from his pocket and marked up the page. “Your assumption was correct. You found something important.”

“How important?”

Sherlock looked up, eyes serious, smirk strangely absent. “Information important enough to kill for.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday! Please leave a comment! :-)


	21. Chapter 21

"Look." Sherlock pointed at the paper with his pen.

00 **L** 213859 19 **J** 3722 **E**  98 **F** 63 **F** 75 **R** 17 **Y**  190214AG  **L. Jeffry**

00A213859 87W6093I 31L73K60E30S ICN51938 **A. Wilkes**

00J213859 36S0506M 75I90T81H09E 48KK96BB  **J. Smithe**

00R213859 16B0430A 20R20N06E47S BES1S603  **R. Barnes**

John stared. There were names mixed in with the numbers. "What exactly am I looking at?"

"This is a list of bank account numbers, names, and passwords."

"What? How do you know?"

"The first eight digits are all the same." Sherlock fiddled with his mobile for a moment then showed him the screen. It was the web site for Selby Jennings Investment Bank. The bank routing number was 00213859, an exact match.

"You think someone was going to try and steal money from these accounts somehow?"

"Possibly, or something equally nefarious."

John frowned. "Why these people?"

"According to their site, Selby Jennings' London branch offers a special discount for civil servants."

He blinked. "Civil servants?"

Sherlock tapped away on his mobile. "Yes, Adam Wilkes is the Director of Ammunition Procurement for the Ministry of Defence. Jeffry and Smithe are officers under him and Rupert Barnes is the Director of General Finance. The list goes on. This slip of paper contains bank account access information for every senior member of the MOD."

John's mouth fell open. "My god. Do you think the bank is some kind of front?"

"No. I'm certain the Director of General Finance vets his financial institutions quite thoroughly. It's more likely our killer intended to investigate the spending habits of those listed and blackmail them accordingly. Much cleaner than funneling money out of accounts."

He sucked in a breath. "And if they refused to comply, the blackmailer would sell the information to the press like that whistle-blower did to The Telegraph five years ago."

His friend looked up from his phone. "What are you on about?"

"It was a huge scandal, Sherlock. How can you not remember?"

"Was anyone murdered?"

"No."

"Then why would I care?"

"You should care because expense accounts were exposed for a number of government officials, including members of the House of Commons and House of Lords. It was revealed the majority were falsely expensing their second homes, writing off the cost of furniture, duck houses, and even tins of cat food. The public was outraged. Ten officials were imprisoned and others fined. There were even death threats. It was a mess."

"Hmmm."

"Don't you think we should warn the account holders their information has been compromised?"

"No, because it hasn't."

"How do you know?"

"Because this is the only copy our killer had."

John shot his friend an incredulous look. "You can't know that."

Sherlock waved the paper in his face. "Balance of probability, John. No one prints anything anymore. Everything goes on thumb drives or on the cloud. It's clear our killer is unable to access the computer he originally used to retrieve the data or he wouldn't have gone to the trouble to drug Rebecca Frost or attempt to run over Miss Walker. Whether he intends to sell it to another party or blackmail those listed, its value is dependent on it being one of a kind. He wants it and will do whatever it takes to get it back."

Oh. It was both annoying and fascinating the way the man could deduce so much information out of such a tiny thing as a printed piece of paper. "What next then?"

Sherlock gave an impatient shake of his head. "Who is more important than what."

He let out a sharp breath through his nose. "Alright, I'll bite. Who's next?"

"Neil Henley. This is his missing composition book. He works in the tech department for Selby Jennings. He was also a favorite student of Ms. Frost."

"And you know this how?"

Sherlock's eyes gleamed. "I found him playing the piano at Aria. Giles mentioned he was looking for his notebook and that he worked for the investment bank."

"Have you met him, Vivian?" John glanced over at the woman. She'd been uncharacteristically quiet.

She was slumped against the corner wall, head lolled to the side. A light snore filled the air. The lamp flickered, sending shadows flitting across her face. Before John could take a step in her direction, her arms and legs spasmed and she startled awake.

She blinked over at them. "What? Why are you both looking at me like that?"

John frowned. "You-"

"-must be extremely distracted by our conversation," Sherlock said. "John and I will just finish our discussion elsewhere so you can continue to build your storage room. I'll be back in a moment."

A yawn tugged at her mouth. "Alright, but you better not lock me in."

Sherlock cast her a sidelong glance. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Her voice carried through the door. "Oh yes, you would."

Instead of stopping inside the entrance to the shed as John had expected, Sherlock headed out into the rain, towards the closest tree. The heavy green foliage of the magnolia thankfully sheltered them from most of the downpour.

"Why exactly are we out here, Sherlock?" He wagered it wasn't for the fresh air.

"Miss Walker's hearing is entirely too sensitive for this discussion."

"What's going on?"

"She's been nodding off every half hour or so, then jerking awake."

John shot him an incredulous look. "And you're surprised? She's starving and exhausted. Most people don't thrive on sugary tea and little sleep."

"She hasn't been sleeping at all," Sherlock said flatly.

He cast his friend a quizzical look. "She was sleeping a minute ago."

"She's not even aware it's happening. One moment she'll be asking a question, the next, she checks out mid-sentence. When she awakens she has no memory of the event at all. I believe she's experiencing micro sleeps. It's possible the data overwhelming her brain is preventing her from reaching REM sleep."

John's stomach lurched. REM sleep was necessary for the body to function. Too long without it put incredible stress on the brain and nervous system, resulting in paranoia, hallucinations, and if left untreated, death.

"We need to get her to hospital immediately," John said.

"Don't be ridiculous. The noise from all the machinery would only increase the speed of her decline. She doesn't need hospital. What she needs is a Mind Palace."

He pursed his lips. "Isn't that your job?"

"Yes, but I'm out of time. I thought she had the mental energy left to finish building her storage room and devise her deletion method, but she's declining too rapidly now."

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"None of the symptoms were there a few hours ago. This most recent episode officially established a pattern. I thought she was stable. The nico-" Sherlock's mouth shut with a clack.

John's heart sped up and heat filled his face. He tried to keep his voice even, but each word came out louder than the previous one. "Tell me you didn't give Vivian nicotine patches. Tell me you weren't that stupid."

Sherlock remained silent, though his eyes narrowed.

"Are you a doctor? Are you trained to treat patients or prescribe medication?" John advanced on his friend. "Answer me, damn it!"

Sherlock's lips thinned. "No. I'm not a doctor."

"No, you're bloody well not. So, what in the hell possessed you to think you knew how to treat her?"

"Nicotine patches helped me cope with my own withdrawals. I thought it would stabilize her emotional state, reduce withdrawal symptoms, and suppress her appetite." His tone turned defensive. "And it did. She appeared more relaxed after a few doses. I know you're angry I didn't consult you, but it worked."

John's blood pressure rose and the vein in his forehead began to throb. "Oh, I'm not angry, Sherlock. I'm way past angry and into furious now, or haven't you deduced that yet?"

"I don't see the problem." Sherlock's frown deepened.

"Of course you don't, you arrogant bastard. As a textbook insomniac, you never noticed the effects, but nicotine negatively impacts sleep rhythms, REM sleep in particular. Do you see the problem now?"

Sherlock's eyes widened a fraction.

"Oh good, the gears are finally turning. We would have known Vivian was in danger sooner, but your prescription of nicotine patches masked her decline by suppressing her metabolism and giving her body a false sense of alertness. You've also robbed her of what little REM sleep she could have gotten in the meantime. Are you still pleased with yourself, Doctor Holmes?" John jabbed a finger at Sherlock's chest. "Because you may well be responsible for her death."

Sherlock slowly shook his head. "I didn't - I never intended-"

He'd never seen the man so inarticulate. Refusing to feel a speck of sympathy for him, John folded his arms and waited.

Sherlock cleared his throat. The words, when they came, were low and slow. "I'm sorry."

He had to brace himself against the urge to rock back on his heels. It wasn't often that Sherlock Holmes apologized. He ran a hand through his damp hair and sighed. "You should be telling Vivian that, not me."

Sherlock's gaze shifted to the shed and back. "I should have consulted you instead of taking matters into my own hands. What do you think we should do?"

John's expression turned stony. "We tell her the truth. There's no hiding this from her."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I meant to help save her. Have you any ideas?"

Of course. Only now that the situation was appropriately dire was he being consulted. John threw his hands up in the air. "No, Sherlock, I don't. I've never seen anything like this in my life. The human body is complex. It's not like I can put her in sleep mode like I do my laptop."

Sherlock went still, then his hand darted out to clutch John's arm, his grip so tight it bordered on painful. "Yes, you can. You've done it before."

"What?"

"Sergeant Anthony Phillips. You treated him for cardiac arrest in Afghanistan."

John stared at his friend. "How did you-?"

"My curiosity was piqued after Lt. Doyle mentioned you turned his friend into a human ice lolly. It was simple enough to use Mycroft's security clearance to gain access to Sergeant Phillips' military records. You saved the man's life."

An explosion had rocked their unit. Phillips had collapsed, his pulse absent. John administered CPR, and while the man's heart beat and respiration resumed, he didn't return to consciousness. Air support wouldn't reach them for another day, and John had been desperate to save him. The neurological damage was spreading, and the young soldier wouldn't last the night. They'd been camped near Lake Zarkol along the Tajikistan border. As a last resort, he and the men in his unit carved a hole in the ice and sank Phillips' body into the freezing waters.

Therapeutic hypothermia slowed the spreading damage by decreasing oxygen flow to the brain, reducing the production of neurotransmitters, and limiting free radicals. While current studies still showed mixed results, the risky medical treatment had saved Sergeant Anthony Phillips' life.

John shook his head. "This situation is not the same."

Sherlock paced beneath the shelter of the tree. "It's similar enough. Miss Walker had a traumatic brain injury six months ago. There was neurological damage resulting in data overload. Her brain is now overheating due to lack of REM sleep and the inability to assimilate the influx of information bombarding her mind. Lowering her body temperature will act as a coolant for her brain and slow down the decline."

"That doesn't solve the REM sleep issue."

"One of your sleeping pills should do the trick."

John scowled. "Did you go through my bag?"

He scoffed. "You always take them with you when you travel. It makes you snore by the way. Your nasal wheezing carried all the way down the hall to my room last night."

John refused to be distracted. "You want me to dispense my own prescription medication to someone who isn't my patient."

Sherlock spread his hands. "Do we have any other options? Just one Ambien, John. The combination of hypothermia and the medication may not fully induce REM sleep for her, but there's a chance it will at least give her body a few hours rest. Sleep paralysis will prevent her limbs from twitching her awake. It could reboot her brain just enough to allow me to finish her training and save her life."

John sighed. "You should have been a barrister."

"Excellent."

It was only after his friend's shoulders lowered that John realized how tense the man had been. And still was, judging by the tightness around the man's eyes. Guilt had a funny way of doing that to a man.

"I have two conditions," John said.

"Conditions?"

"One. I will give her a single Ambien. In case your Mind Palace hasn't told you, it's dangerous to give post withdrawal patients hypnotics. There's a greater risk of dependency developing. Two. If her condition does not improve following this treatment, you will follow my medical advice without question or complaint. Do you understand?"

Sherlock lifted a single brow. "You're the doctor."

John wasn't about to let him off the hook so easily. "Promise me you'll comply with my terms."

His friend shot him an insulted look. "You have my word."

"Good. It's high time we let Vivian know what's going on." He nodded towards the shed. "And remember, it's her decision, not yours."

 

***

 

A roaring fire sent warmth curling through the drafty library. John set the tea tray down on the coffee table and passed the cups around. The clinking of spoons against china sang in curious harmony with the hiss and sputter of raindrops down the flue.

Sherlock eyed Vivian over his teacup. "You haven't been sleeping."

Right. Of course the man would take the most direct, obnoxious route possible.

Her head shot up, eyes narrowed. "Yes, I have. Not as much as before, but I'm managing."

"No, you're not."

Somehow John didn't believe antagonizing Vivian was going to make her want to agree with Sherlock's plan.

"The sooner you finish teaching me, the sooner I can sleep. I'll be fine until then."

Sherlock shook his head. "I can't teach you if you're falling asleep during your lessons."

She scowled. "I haven't fallen asleep once."

"Yes, you have. You just have no recollection of it."

She gripped her tea cup. "I think I'd remember if I fell asleep or not."

John cleared his throat. "You wouldn't, not if you're experiencing micro sleeps. It can last anywhere from a few seconds to a minute or two."

Sherlock cast him a sideways look. "I thought you were going to be a silent party."

"I was, but I can't just sit here and watch you muck it up."

Sherlock gave him a smug smile and John knew he'd been had. Ah, well. In for a penny and all that.

Her brow furrowed. "Did you see me fall asleep?"

John nodded. "In the shed."

"And I've witnessed you doing it most of the morning, every half hour or so, though the intervals between episodes are shortening," Sherlock said.

Sherlock glanced at the clock then moved to stand next to Vivian where she sat in the leather chair.

She looked up at him. "If this is some kind of sick joke, I'm going to be-"

Vivian sagged sideways and her head fell forward. Sherlock's hand shot out and caught her teacup before it could spill.

"It might be best to keep hot beverages away from her for the moment," John said, crouching next to her chair. He checked her pulse. Fast, but steady. The color was high in her cheeks. Red streaks spread up towards her temples. Definitely feverish.

Sherlock sighed. "I thought the tea and sugar might keep the next episode at bay."

"Well, you were wrong. Again." John put a hand on her shoulder and gently shook her. "Vivian. Wake up."

"-very upset," she mumbled. Her eyes fluttered open. She recoiled, and her hands rose, fists raised defensively.

Sherlock stood to the side, face grim, still holding her tea cup.

"It's alright," John said, speaking in the calm voice he used for frightened patients. "You just had another episode."

She swallowed. "Sorry. It's just a bit weird. One minute you were sitting on the sofa and then a second later right next to my face."

"A natural reaction," he said with a smile, "I'm just glad you didn't punch me."

"I'm not. It would have been far more entertaining if she had." Sherlock set the tea cup back on the tray.

She ran a hand across her eyes. "I don't understand. I lost time, but I can recall the conversation just fine. You told him to keep hot beverages away from me."

John's eyebrows rose. "Yes, I did."

"That's your audio memory coming into play, I'm afraid. You weren't technically awake though," Sherlock said.

"What's happening to me?"

Sherlock gave John a go ahead gesture.

"We believe the data building up in your mind is preventing you from REM sleep. Going without it for too long adversely affects the brain and body. The micro sleeps you're experiencing are a sign of acute REM deprivation," John said.

Her forehead furrowed, then cleared. "Oh." She craned her head to look at Sherlock. "That's doctor speak for I haven't much time, isn't it?"

Sherlock gave her a curt nod.

"How long?"

"If the pattern continues, you have 48 hours of relative lucidity remaining. That is, as long as you remain unstimulated and not physically taxed in any way," Sherlock said.

"And that's not enough time for me to finish my training?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not in your current state. Your mental energy is too depleted, and your body temperature is rising too rapidly."

She worried at her bottom lip. "What happens when I run out of time?"

"You'll continue to decline." John waved a hand. "Knowing the ugly details isn't going to help you right now though. It's better if we focus-"

Vivian scowled. "I deserve the truth. Sherlock?"

Sherlock's mouth thinned. "The micro sleep episodes will increase in number and length. Mental decay and organ shut down will follow, ultimately resulting in a comatose state, then death."

She blinked, and a pained smile caught at her mouth. "Right. So, I guess I can eat now."

A nervous giggle bubbled up in John's chest. It felt similar to the time when he'd burst into hysterical laughter in front of his Aunt Muriel's open casket. He took a large gulp of tea to shove the sensation down.

"No, I'm afraid food still isn't an option," Sherlock said.

Vivian slammed her palms against the arms of the chair. "I don't even get a last meal?" She appeared far more upset over the lack of food than the prospect of death. "I think I've bloody earned it."

"Eating will only further stimulate your system and accelerate your decline."

"What does it matter if I'm going to die anyway?"

"Your death isn't certain. There's a chance-"

She lurched out of her seat and poked his friend in the chest. "Don't you dare give me false hope, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock caught her wrist. "I'm telling you the truth. There's a chance we can slow the process down and give your body the rest it needs, but the method is risky."

She stared, and her hand slipped from his grasp to slowly fall to her side. "Tell me."

Sherlock gestured at her chair, and she resumed her seat. She looked from Sherlock then over to John. "Tell me."

John nodded. "Essentially, your brain is overheating, like a high-powered engine without coolant. The lack of REM sleep prevents the assimilation of information and saps energy from your body. Our plan is to put you in a bathtub full of ice to induce therapeutic hypothermia. There's a chance it could slow down the neurological damage."

She frowned. "I can see how lowering my body temperature will help reduce the pressure in my brain, but if I can't achieve REM sleep, what's the point?"

"We'd dose you with Ambien. It's designed to induce REM rhythms and sleep paralysis so you won't awaken due to your limbs jerking or from shivering," John said.

Vivian wiped a drop of sweat from her temple. "How long would the treatment take?"

Sherlock put his hands behind his back. "We'd keep you on ice for two to three hours, then slowly rewarm your body until you awaken. Ideally, your brain will be rebooted from the cooling and induction of REM sleep. You'd then have enough energy to allow me to finish your training."

"What's the risk?"

"Nerve damage and death," Sherlock said, his tone softer than John had ever heard.

"I see." Vivian let out a slow breath. She raised her head and gave them a grim smile. "When do we start?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying this story, please leave a comment. Every time I get a review, a Sherlock gets a case. :-)


	22. Chapter 22

Sherlock eyed the antique claw-footed porcelain bathtub in the downstairs guest room. The two shower stalls upstairs obviously wouldn't work, and the whirlpool tub in his parents' suite would make conforming the ice to Miss Walker's body problematic. This was their only option. At least the scooped lip on one end would help support her neck, and the narrow shape of the tub would allow for the ice to be packed in more tightly.

John poked his head into the bathroom. "I bought all the ice I could find. The freezer in the garage and the kitchen are both full, and two ice chests. Do you think it'll be enough?"

"We'll make it work," Sherlock said. The next supermarket was an hour away, and it was doubtful the small town store would replenish their ice supply that quickly. Fortunately, the drug would depress Miss Walker's system and lower her body temperature, making the ice last longer. It was difficult to measure exactly how much would be needed for three hours of chilling a live human body. Corpses were far easier to deal with, but he had no intention of allowing her to become one.

"Where's Vivian?" John asked.

"In the library, waiting for the Ambien to take effect." He took out his mobile and opened an article on the dangers of nerve damage during therapeutic hypothermia.

"How did she react?"

Sherlock didn't bother to look up, hoping the incessant questions would cease. "She's fine."

John's voice went all high-pitched. "She's fine? You haven't told her, have you?"

He glared down at the screen. "I don't see the point. My telling her won't change anything, certainly not for the better."

John snatched the mobile out of his hand. "This is about taking personal responsibility. Quit hiding in the bathroom like a child and go talk to her. She deserves to know."

Sherlock's hands clenched. It was utterly irrational, but he wanted nothing more than to drive his fist into John's earnest face. As satisfying as the violent action would be, it wouldn't help matters any. He might be irritated with his friend, but it paled in comparison to the depth of frustration he currently felt towards himself.

He didn't make mistakes. Ever.

"You'll regret it if you don't tell her the truth and she doesn't make it through this. It's as much for her as it is for you."

Sherlock had never heard such ridiculous psychobabble in his life. The nicotine patches had already done their damage. Informing Miss Walker would be a pointless exercise. However, John's wide stance and the determined set of his jaw told him there was zero chance of getting out of it. If he didn't do it, John would. At least this way, he'd have some control over the situation.

"Fine," he said. "I'll speak to her now."

"Good." John set his stolen mobile on two boxes of cling film and held it out for him. "While you're at it, wrap her up in this. The plastic will prevent tissue damage. I told her earlier to dress down to something thin, like a camisole or chemise."

An unsettling sensation formed in his stomach. It hadn't even been a week since he'd used a similar roll of plastic on Rebecca Frost's corpse. And now he was to do the same with Miss Walker, except she was very much alive. "Can't it wait until she's unconscious?"

John shook his head. "It'll be easier to do while she's still awake." He gave him a half smile. "You might want to wrap her arms up before you tell her. She won't be able to punch you then."

Sherlock scowled, then took the proffered boxes and left the bathroom.

He found her seated in his leather chair, staring out the window at the slate grey sky. The downpour had shifted to a soft drizzle. Her slipper-shod feet stuck out beneath a long, plush dressing gown. The thick quilt from her bed wrapped around her like a cocoon. She'd plaited her hair and coiled it on top her head though a few red wisps strayed near her cheek.

"Are you noticing any effects yet?"

Bloodshot eyes glinted above bruised, dark circles. "I'm tired, but not any more so than usual. I can't seem to get warm enough though."

The pink in her cheeks had deepened and spread. Scarlet stretched up her ears and across her forehead. A light sheen of sweat glistened on her brow.

"That's due to the fever," he said. "What was your last temperature reading?"

The hold on her blanket tightened. "40 degrees."

Not good. She was rapidly approaching hyperpyrexia. The sooner they got her body cooled down, the better.

Her gaze fell to the boxes. "What's the cling film for?"

"You. I'm to wrap you up in it. Doctor's orders."

Her eyebrows rose. "Are you planning on mummifying me?"

He chuckled. "No. If I was, I'd have a hook to rip your brain out through your nose and a sharp blade to remove your internal organs. I'd also need a great deal of salt and linen bandages. No cling film required."

She blinked up at him, and her mouth quirked. "Right. I expect I'm relieved then."

He nodded and set the boxes on the coffee table. "The plastic should protect your skin from direct contact with the ice while still allowing the cold to permeate your body."

"Like a slab of raw beef prepped for the freezer?"

"Similar, yes." Or like a corpse. There hadn't been any distraught calls from the staff at Aria yet, so Rebecca Frost's body still lay hidden.

Despite having informed her of their next step, she remained in her seat, the blanket still curled around her. One hand worried at the hem of the quilt.

She looked back up at him. "I suppose you'll need me to undress now."

He frowned, noting her hunched posture and pinched expression. Was she having second thoughts? The high fever could be clouding her mind and influencing her judgment. "If you intend to move forward with treatment, then yes, you'll need to remove your robe."

Giving a jerky nod, she stood and slid the blanket off her shoulders.

Good. He wasn't sure what he would have done if she'd suddenly changed her mind.

While she folded the quilt and disrobed, he opened the two boxes and removed one roll.

"Will this fabric be a problem?" she asked. There was a hesitancy to her tone he hadn't heard before.

Sherlock glanced up. His grip tightened on the roll of plastic as a wave of heat swept through him, followed by icy cold.

Her gaze was fixed on the floor, arms crossed protectively over her chest. She wore a dark blue slip, the color in stark contrast with the creamy white of her skin. Judging by the way the liquid material flowed over her body, it was silk. A black lacy edge came to rest just below her thigh. He'd been unaccountably bothered by her mud-slicked form the other day, but this was far worse.

A painful rhythm beat in his temples as the cold in the pit of his stomach gave way to another surge of warmth. Perhaps he was coming down with something.

This was no time to be ill.

"Silk shouldn't be a problem." He moved to her side. "It would be best if we start from the top and move downward."

Her nod shifted into a full body shiver and the thin straps trembled on her shoulders. Gooseflesh broke out across her skin, spreading to disappear beneath the lace-trimmed V-neck. "It's bloody cold in here."

Sherlock swallowed. No. It was entirely too warm.

He unrolled a large swath of plastic and lifted it up. "Drop your arms."

Miss Walker let out a breath and did as he'd asked. Holding one edge of the plastic against her bare shoulder, he wrapped it around her back. Continuing, he drew it around the front of her body and across her chest, averting his gaze from her body's rather more pointed reaction to cold. "It's best for the plastic to be as tight as possible, but let me know if I'm causing you pain."

"I'm fine," she said, her voice strained.

He understood now why John had foisted the job on him. This was revenge for deducing his discovery of the notebook. Petty, but effective. It wasn't his fault the man's methods were so obvious.

"Are your ribs feeling better?" she asked, the question due to him now wrapping hers.

"Yes." The stabbing pain from last night was now a ghostly ache. "I believe an apology is in order."

Her startled gaze met his. "Apology? For what?"

Sherlock looked away and continued to wrap the plastic around her, tightening it around her stomach. "I shouldn't have given you the nicotine patches."

"Why not?"

"Nicotine negatively impacts REM sleep. The stimulant qualities made you appear in better condition by disguising your decline. If I hadn't given them to you, we would have known you were in danger sooner, been better prepared."

There was a pause. "I don't understand why you're apologizing."

He stared up at her from where he knelt on one knee by her hip. Did she not comprehend the gravity of his error? "I've been informed it's the responsible thing to do when one's actions harm another."

"Did you intend to cause me harm by giving me the nicotine patches?"

"Of course not."

She shrugged, or at least tried to, the plastic impeding her movement. "Then you have no reason to apologize."

An odd heaviness settled in his stomach. Sherlock had never had anyone argue against the need for an apology from him before. Furious demands for one were more like it. "How can you be so nonchalant? I've endangered your life by contributing to your decline."

Miss Walker shook her head. "You've been doing everything in your power to help me. Besides, everyone makes mistakes."

"I don't." He set to work on her calves, careful to touch her as little as possible. This was nothing like wrapping Rebecca Frost. A corpse was a cold, unresponsive empty shell. Miss Walker shared none of those qualities.

"Of course you do. You made one when you didn't tell me the truth about the dangers of going into my Mind Palace. You made one when you turned your back on me at the pond. And now the nicotine patches. Despite what your ego might tell you, you're just as human as everyone else."

Sherlock stood and grabbed the other roll of cling film. The frustration from earlier was back, and he ripped at the plastic harder than necessary. "On the contrary, the uniqueness of my mind separates me from everyone else. Mistakes are rare for me."

Except where Miss Walker was concerned. He'd erred more in the last three days than he had in three years, his winning streak broken. He returned to her shoulders to add a second layer of protection.

She caught his eye, expression serious. "Then I'm glad you made them."

He frowned. She wasn't making sense. Her pupils weren't dilated yet, so he knew it wasn't the drug talking. "Why?"

"Everyone needs a reminder of their humanity. You more than most, I imagine."

His lip curled. Humanity. The empty-headed unwashed masses, enslaved by their appetites for money, power, sex, or sentiment. He was nothing like them. Her insulting answer didn't deserve a response.

"I'd gladly accept an apology from you for lying to me though," she said.

Sherlock let out a derisive snort. "Right."

Her eyes narrowed. "Your actions caused me harm. Per your logic, it certainly qualifies for an apology."

He set his jaw. "No, my actions prevented serious harm. I wouldn't have needed to throw you into the pond if you'd listened to my request, real reason aside."

Her mouth twisted and she made a frustrated sound. "I refuse to accept your apology for the nicotine patches then."

Sherlock straightened from his crouched position and looked down his nose at her. "Fine. I retract my apology."

"Good." Her chin lifted. "I didn't want one in the first place."

It took a great deal of effort to suppress the childish desire to flick her forehead. The lightest touch would tip her tightly wrapped body off balance, and she'd tumble onto the sofa like a felled tree. His fingers curled into his palm. "You are the most irrational creature I've ever met."

Miss Walker's eyes flashed. "And you're the most bloody-minded!" She punctuated her sentence with a trio of agitated hops.

Sherlock's exasperation fizzled out at the sight. Here she was, red-faced, feverish, half-naked but for layers of plastic and jumping about like a lunatic.

He honestly couldn't help himself.

He laughed.

Her mouth fell open, expression caught somewhere between angry, astonished, and aghast.

Lips twitching, he waved a hand at her. "Just look at yourself."

Miss Walker looked down and her mouth fell open. The high fever and her subsequent tantrum had resulted in a bright red flush across her entire body, the vibrant shade glowing through the plastic.

She gaped at him, eyes wide. A shocked whisper. "Oh my god. I look like a sausage link. An angry one."

That set him off again, and he chuckled. This time, she joined in. Her bright peals of laughter competed with his lower tones.

The entire situation was ridiculous.

Pain stopped him, his bruised ribs twinging in reaction. He took in a slow, calming breath.

Tears streamed down her red face and dripped off her chin onto the carpet. She let out a wheezing sigh. "Thanks. I needed that."

Sherlock shook his head, grin fading as she wobbled like a tree in heavy wind.

He caught her around the waist. "Are you alright?"

She blinked slowly, half-lidded eyes revealing dilated pupils. "I believe the Ambien is taking effect now."

It was about time. Her recent use of morphine had likely delayed the onset. "You'd best lie down." He eased her onto the sofa. The cling film made a crinkling sound as he did his best to situate her comfortably.

"It's a good thing I'm not claustrophobic," she said around a jaw-popping yawn.

"Indeed." Grabbing what plastic remained on the roll, he began to wrap her feet. His finger brushed the sole of her foot and she squirmed, a tiny gasp escaping her mouth.

She looked up at him with solemn eyes and lifted her head from the pillow as if to impart some dark secret. "I'm ticklish."

Sherlock blinked. The question falling from his lips without thought. "Just your feet or other places as well?"

She gave an exaggerated grimace. "Other places, too. My brother used to tickle me whenever I refused to give him the TV remote."

If only Mycroft's methods of manipulation had been so mundane. "Well, he certainly can't tickle you now."

The insensitivity of his offhand comment occurred to him too late.

She nodded in agreement, unperturbed. "That'd be difficult for a dead person to do."

Her eyes fell closed, and he began to wrap her other foot, careful not to touch her skin this time. A few minutes passed in silence but for her slow and steady breathing. Was she down for the count?

"Remember what you promised me on the rooftop?"

His hands stilled. "Yes." He hadn't expected another lucid moment.

"In 48 hours, it'll be a week since our agreement." Her eyes were still shut, but a frown marred her brow as if the act of speaking required a great deal of concentration.

He finished wrapping her foot, hoping she'd actually fall asleep this time and drop the subject.

"Promise me again. I don't want to go mad or become a vegetable." Her eyelids dragged open. "Please. Let me die with dignity."

Sherlock's words were sharp. "Whether by murder, illness, or natural means, there is no dignity in death."

Her tone was insistent. "But you can ensure there is dignity in mine. If this doesn't work, and I begin to feel my mind slipping, I swear to you, I will do whatever it takes to finish the job, with or without your help."

If this last ditch effort of theirs to slow her decline didn't work, he doubted she'd be in any shape to take her own life. Although he had underestimated her before. Regardless, he had already given her his word. "If there is no hope for your recovery, I promise I will help you end your life."

The frown etched into her forehead eased, and her eyes drooped shut. "Thank you."

Sherlock gazed down at her. Strange to see her expressive face so still. Light freckles sprinkled across her nose and the tips of her ears, visible despite the redness of her skin. He hadn't noticed them anywhere else. Her mother must have let her outside without a hat as a child.

He blinked. What an absolutely pointless deduction.

His mobile buzzed in his pocket. It was Mr. Giles, likely returning his message regarding Neil Henley.

Stepping into the hall, he answered the call. "Hello, Giles."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes. How is Miss Walker?"

"She's resting at the moment. Do you have the information I requested?"

"Yes, of course. Neil's address is 9 Byng Street in Canary Wharf. And his mobile number-"

"Please text it to me."

"Oh. Certainly. You know, he's been quite distressed over Ms. Frost's death, visiting almost every day to play the piano. The poor boy has been taking it hard. We all have. Is there a reason you wish to speak to him again?"

If Neil was in fact responsible for Ms. Frost's death, he was likely overcompensating in his expression of grief. Sherlock had seen it before. He chose the most diplomatic response. "Neil may have additional information which could prove helpful to our case."

The butler's tone grew concerned. "You better catch him soon then. He told me he was leaving on a business trip later today."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Thank you. I'll keep you up to date on what I discover."

He hung up. There was a possibility they had a runner on their hands, though he doubted their murderer would give up on the hunt for the account information so easily. If Neil was the culprit, it was far more likely he'd exhausted his search for the document at Aria and was prepared to look elsewhere.

John walked around the corner. "How's Vivian?"

"Asleep and wrapped up as requested. And before you bother to ask, yes, I apologized."

John's eyebrows rose. "And how did she respond?"

"Unconventionally. Regardless, the issue is resolved."

"Good. Who were you on the phone with?"

Sherlock tapped his mobile against his leg. "Henry Giles. It appears our friend Neil Henley will be leaving town on business today."

John grimaced. "Well, that's inconvenient."

"Yes, it's rather difficult to interrogate someone when they're absent."

"We'll just have to wait until he returns then."

Sherlock shook his head. He wasn't about to allow Neil Henley to get away without a thorough questioning. "We need to catch him before he leaves. There's a chance he's responsible for Ms. Frost's death."

John gestured at the library door. "We can't. Vivian is ill. There's no way we can leave her here unattended."

"She'll be sleeping in a tub of ice, practically hibernating. What's to be concerned about?"

John shot him an annoyed look. "Her temperature will need to be closely monitored as well as her breathing and heart rate. We want her cold, but not too cold. This treatment requires a delicate balancing act."

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest further, but John interrupted him, no doubt fueled by righteous indignation. "Vivian's life is more important than Rebecca Frost's death. We will catch the man who killed her, Sherlock, just not today."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late posting! Please let me know what you think. Your comments are like crack!


	23. Chapter 23

Sherlock ground his teeth together. He understood the importance of not leaving Miss Walker unattended, but it was driving him mad that he couldn't continue on with the case.

"What if I went on my own? I could question him and be back before she awakens. You could keep me apprised of her condition in the meantime."

John shook his head. "You said our killer is willing to do whatever it takes. If it is Neil Henley, you'll have no idea what to expect from him, especially if he believes you've got him cornered. He already killed Rebecca and nearly ran over Vivian. He's dangerous."

Sherlock shot him a dark look. "Don’t forget, I'm dangerous too. I managed just fine on my own before you came along."

John gave him a deceptively placid look. "No, you didn't. And the answer is still no."

He let loose a frustrated sound and paced the hall, then stopped short. "What if I found someone to care for Miss Walker in our absence?"

John's eyes narrowed. "You mean, hire someone?"

He considered his next words carefully. "No, more like request a favor."

"Allowing a stranger to monitor her could violate her privacy."

He was well aware that her medical condition needed to be kept from her employer. "If the person was trustworthy, what then?"

John folded his arms, expression exasperated. "I'll tell you what, if you can find a skilled and trustworthy physician who is willing to supervise her for a few hours, then I’ll consider it. But I refuse to leave her with anyone who doesn't meet my specifications. Vivian is vulnerable right now, and she’s our responsibility."

“Agreed.”

John's unconcerned face told him that his friend doubted his ability to come up with a suitable candidate in such a short time frame. John was in for a big surprise. That is, if the man in question was still alive.

"I need to check on Vivian," John said. "If she's sedated enough, we'll need to get her in the tub as soon as possible."

"I'll be there in a moment.”

John nodded and went into the library.

He retrieved his mobile and dialed Doctor Nigel Reed.

A familiar gruff voice answered. "Who is it?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

The old man's tone warmed considerably. "Sherlock Holmes! My goodness. It's been quite some time, lad."

"Yes, it has." Twenty years at least. "Are you still doing house calls? I’m at _Brackenwood_."

A sputtering laugh came through the speaker. "House calls? I've been retired for ten years.”

"I don't suppose you'd make an exception?"

There was a pause. "Have you got yourself into a scrape, lad?"

"Not this time. I've a guest in need of medical supervision."

"It's not a murderer, is it? I don't treat murderers."

He smirked. "No, Doctor Reed, she's not a murderer."

"She?" His tone grew intrigued. "Now, now. Tell me, lad. Is she pretty?"

He rolled his eyes. "Why don’t you come over and find out for yourself?"

"How long will you need me for?"

"Three hours tops."

"Well, well. I suppose an old gent like me could find it in his heart to provide company for a damsel in distress.”

“I'm afraid she won't be much for conversation.”

"Why not?"

“By the time you arrive, she'll be completely unconscious and submerged in a bathtub full of ice."

A breathless chuckle came through the phone. "I’ll be right over."

He ended the call and grinned. Now, all he needed to do was to convince John of Doctor Reed’s suitability.

"She's ready," John said, as he entered the library.

Sherlock lifted Miss Walker and carried her to the bathroom, the weight of her in his arms now quite familiar.

John poured a layer of ice into the bottom of the tub and Sherlock laid her inside as gently as he could. Together they emptied the heavy bags of ice, filling the tub until she was covered from the shoulders down. She showed no response to the cold, eyes shut, breathing steady.

John set a temporal artery thermometer and his stethoscope on the counter.

"I believe I've found someone who can take care of Miss Walker while we question Neil Henley."

John's eyebrows shot up. "You found someone in five minutes?"

"Don't you know me at all?"

The doorbell rang. John’s face darkened. "Fine. Bring him in then."

Doctor Nigel Reed looked like an aged rugby flanker. His broad shoulders pulled at his natty tweed coat. The illusion was broken by the worn, black leather physician bag he carried.

"Hello, Sherlock. Where’s my lovely patient?"

He shook the man's proffered hand. There was plenty strength left in his grasp. “I must warn you. My friend, Doctor Watson, will wish to interview you prior to releasing her into your care."

White eyebrows gone to seed lifted, and a broad smile crossed the old man’s face. "I haven't been interviewed in ages. Take me to him, lad."

He led the man down the hall, through the guest bedroom, and into the bathroom. John knelt next to the tub, stethoscope in hand, the flat metal end pressed against the side of Miss Walker's neck.

The old man braced an arm against the door frame, eyes wide. "No, not pretty at all. She's a beauty, a regular ice princess, that one. Where've you been hiding her?"

"I’ve only met her. She's a client."

John looked up. "Her pulse is 80 beats per minute, steady, temperature holding at 39 degrees." His gaze shifted to the old man. "Hello. Doctor John Watson." He held out a hand.

"Doctor Nigel Reed, at your service, young man."

"Doctor Reed is a family practice physician. He lives in the red brick house down the road."

"I was a family practice physician,” the man corrected. “I've been retired for ten years."

"He did house calls throughout the area. I'd see him occasionally when we summered here."

"Occasionally?" The old man laughed. "It was a tad more than that. You got yourself into some nasty scrapes. Remember the time you singed your eyebrows off?"

John’s gleeful expression rivaled his happy tea face. “You what?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You know I forget nothing. It wasn’t my fault the methanol ignited prematurely."

The old man grinned. "His mother was petrified they wouldn’t grow back."

John chuckled. "What about Mycroft?"

"Ah yes, the older one. He didn't give me as much trouble as this one." He jabbed a thumb in Sherlock's direction.

“That's because Mycroft despises physical activity. It's a wonder he isn't staggeringly obese."

"Careful, Sherlock. His minions might be listening," John said.

He shook his head. "Mycroft is paranoid. He’s the only one who monitors his security system. He doesn't want his privacy invaded. He’s preoccupied with being the British government today, so he’s not listening in now. Besides, there aren’t any devices in the bathroom."

John gaped. "I was only joking. He bugged his own home?"

Sherlock frowned. "Of course. He bugs ours as well, or at least tries to."

Doctor Reed tapped the side of the tub. "So, tell me about your sleeping beauty."

"Her name is Vivian. She's suffering from acute REM deprivation and a high fever approaching hyperpyrexia,” John said.

The man’s wrinkled face turned grave. "I've only seen two other cases like this in my life.”

Sherlock shoved away from the wall. "You have?”

"You don't remember?" Doctor Reed asked, frowning.

An odd sensation settled in his stomach. "What do you mean?"

The old man set his leather bag on the counter. "You had an episode like this when you were young. Mycroft, too, a few years before you.”

Shock lifted the hairs on the back of his neck. He never forgot anything. “Are you sure?"

White brows drew together. "Yes, lad, I'm sure. Your mother was absolutely frantic when she called me. Your father was out of town. You came down with a high fever and couldn’t sleep. I put you in a tub of ice and dosed you with diphenhydramine. It was touch and go for a while, but your temperature came down and you recovered. The same thing happened with Mycroft."

He frowned. Perhaps his bright idea to save Miss Walker hadn’t been as inspired as he’d thought. He’d need to have a conversation with Mycroft to see whether he recalled the incident.

"Then I take it you’re familiar with the care she needs?" John asked.

A smile tugged at Doctor Reed’s mouth. "Indeed. I'll monitor her temperature, heart rate, and respiration. Once she reaches 36 degrees, I'll slowly begin to rewarm her body, starting with cool water, increasing it to tepid, and then warm."

“Where did you attend medical school?” John asked.

“Dundee. Graduated with honors.”

“What would you do if she were going into cardiac arrest?”

Doctor Reed’s smile broadened. “I’d resuscitate her and put her back on ice. Protective hypothermia would improve her chances of recovery.”

John folded his arms. “A new patient visits complaining of a headache and terrible back pain. He says his old physician retired and that he misplaced the pain medication he’d been given. What do you prescribe him?”

The man’s eyes sharpened. “If a thorough examination failed to support his assertion of pain, I’d prescribe him a psych eval, as he’s demonstrating all the signs of drug seeking behavior.”

It was rather like watching a cordial, but very serious, tennis match.

“A patient comes to you with bronchospasms. Do you prescribe her Flomax or Volmax?”

Doctor Reed slapped his knee, and chuckled. “Volmax. I doubt the woman in question would appreciate being given medication to treat an enlarged prostate.”

The sober expression on John’s face gave way to a wide grin. “A colleague of mine made that mistake.”  

Amusement crinkled the old man’s eyes. “Did he now?”

Sherlock looked at his watch. "As fascinating as this conversation is, I believe we have a killer to catch."

"Right. There is the question of confidentiality,” John said, gaze intent once again on the old man.

Doctor Reed nodded. “In quascunque autem aedes introiero, eas adaegrotantium opem ingrediar. At quae inter curandum, aut etiam citracurationem in hominum vita vel videro, velaudiero, quae foras nequaquam efferi oporteat, eaarcana esse ratus, silentio praetermittam.”

Sherlock blinked, caught off guard by the incongruous sound of Latin coming out of the old man’s mouth.

_Whatever house I enter, I will be going into it to help the sick. And whatever I see or hear in people's lives during the treatment, or even outside treatment, that ought not be made public, I will pass over in silence, considering such things to be reserved secrets._

It was an excerpt from the Hippocratic Oath.

The guarded look in John’s eyes shifted to satisfaction. “I just need to grab a few items before we go." Giving the old man a nod, he slipped past them and out of the bathroom.

Doctor Reed’s eyes twinkled. "It appears I've passed muster."

Sherlock's mouth quirked. "Did you have any doubts?"

"No, but it was quite fun.” He sighed as he took a seat on the toilet lid. He reached out a hand and touched Miss Walker’s forehead. “Hmmm. 38.5 degrees now.”

Sherlock eyed the thermometer on the counter, but didn’t dispute the man’s statement. The number of fevered foreheads the doctor had touched likely outnumbered the corpses Sherlock had examined.

Despite the doctor’s shortly trimmed fingernails, Sherlock could still make out a dark line of black dirt embedded beneath the keratin. "I see you’ve traded in physician work for gardening. Must be boring."

Doctor Reed sat back. "You’d be surprised. At times, dahlias require more care than the neediest of my old patients."

Flowers? He was spending his time growing great, round, overly bright flowers? Sherlock shook his head. “Like I said.”

The man cast him an assessing glance. "You know, I've just started keeping bees. They're fascinating creatures. You should come by sometime and take a look when you’re not running about after murderers."

"I'm not certain I could handle the excitement."

Doctor Reed nodded amiably. "Perhaps when you retire then."

Sherlock snorted. "I'll retire when I'm dead."

"We'll see, lad. Who knows what you'll decide to do when you reach my age."

Sherlock waved a hand him. "You're eighty and in excellent physical condition. You could be out now chasing murderers with me. I bet you’d give John a run for his money."

A rumbling laugh. "Now, now. No need to butter me up. I've already agreed to watch your lovely lass for you."

"She's a client."

"For now. She’ll not be one forever. There’s more to life than solving murders, Sherlock."

“I’m perfectly satisfied with my current situation, thank you. I don’t have the time nor the inclination for anything more.”

The doctor looked up at him. “What color are her eyes? Blue? Brown?”

He frowned, distrustful of the drastic change in subject. “Green.”

“What kind of green? Sea green? Olive green?”

Images cascaded through his mind, her eyes flashing in anger, bright with amusement, and darkened by pain. “They’re the color of tobernite.”

“And what is that?”

“It’s a deep green crystal composed of uranium. It leaks radon gas causing lung cancer. Idiot mineral collectors bring it into their homes not realizing they’ve acquired a miniature Chernobyl.”

The doctor stared at him. “It sounds lovely.”

He nodded. It was. Not to mention deadly. “Why do you ask?”

The old man grinned. “I was curious as to what your children would look like.”

Sherlock flicked his eyes to the ceiling. “I believe your age has addled your brain, if not your form." He frowned. "You’ll want to keep in mind that she can hear you."

Doctor Reed's eyebrows rose. "Can she now?"

"Yes. A traumatic head injury from six months ago rewired her brain. She now remembers everything she hears, even when unconscious."

"Well, now. Perhaps I'll regale her with stories about you while you're gone."

"I’d rather you didn’t."

“I know.” The old man chuckled and busied himself with his leather bag, pulling out his own stethoscope and equipment. "I only use my own tools. No offense to Doctor Watson."

"He won’t care," he said, his gaze drawn to Miss Walker’s face. Was that a flicker of movement beneath her eyelids? No. Nothing. It was likely wishful thinking on his part, her need for REM sleep coloring his perception. This treatment would either help her or kill her. Regardless, the situation was now out of his hands, and his energy was better spent elsewhere.

He glanced up and realized the old man had caught him staring.

Something like satisfaction glimmered in the man’s eyes. "She'll be safe on my watch, Sherlock. You have my word."

He nodded curtly. "I wouldn’t have asked you otherwise.”

Doctor Reed had been the only option, his trust in the man equal to his trust in John. Doctor Reed could have sold stories of Sherlock's childhood escapades to the tabloids if he’d wanted, but he hadn’t, preserving what little privacy Sherlock had left.

John popped his head in. "I'm ready to go." He had his coat on and a spare over his arm.

John offered it to him. “You’ll be wanting this since yours is out of commission.”

It was one of father’s old coats, likely hidden in the dark depths of a closet. He slipped it on reluctantly, and a musty scent itched at his nose.

“Do you need anything?” John asked Doctor Reed.

The old man waved a dismissive hand. "Go catch yourself a murderer and give 'em a good wallop for me."

Sherlock smiled, anticipation unfurling inside him. "We'll do our best."

They took the brown car that Balthorne Safe Deposit Box Centre had rented on John’s behalf.

To his great annoyance, John insisted on driving. "This is my rental car, hence I'll be driving. I ruddy well earned it."

"If you drive, we'll never make it to London by nightfall."

John's nostrils flared. "Yes, we will."

Knowing that they were wasting time arguing, he got inside. "Fine. But if we don't manage to catch the man, it'll be your fault."

They sped down the road. "My fault? That’s rich. We have no way of knowing if he's already left."

He glared at him. "I'll blame you all the same."

His mobile chimed. Giles had texted him Neil’s number. He dialed it. Perhaps the man would pick up. It rang four times and went to voice mail. He ended the call without leaving a message. Face to face was better anyhow.

***

Neil Henley lived in a brownstone tower in Canary Wharf, the heart of the financial district.

The spotless lobby was quiet. One clerk manned the desk. The bored young woman glanced up and her eyes flitted past John to linger on Sherlock. Appreciation gleamed in her gaze. Excellent.

“Follow my lead,” Sherlock murmured as they approached the desk. John nodded.

The embossed lettering on her gleaming name tag read _Madeline_. Despite the brunette color of her hair, she was a natural blonde, the penciling in of her eyebrows and the hint of gold at her roots a dead giveaway. Early thirties, single, and definitely looking. Desperate too, judging by the way she leaned down to pick up a phantom pen and smoothly popped open a button from the top of her crisply pressed blouse.

“Hello, Madeline.” He purred out her name in a low and intimate tone.

She looked up at him through a layer of false eyelashes. “Can I help you?”

“I certainly hope so. Our friend Neil Henley was supposed to meet us for drinks before leaving for a business trip today, but he failed to show. He isn't picking up his mobile, so we thought we’d stop by.”

Sherlock allowed his gaze to drop and linger on her exposed cleavage before drawing his eyes back to hers.

A pink flush spread across her cheeks. “Let me take a look.”

“Thanks.” John leaned against the counter.

Madeline blinked over at the army doctor as if just noticing he was there and straightened. “Of course, sir.”

Sherlock winced. It could have been John’s military haircut or perhaps the man reminded her of a close family member or authority figure. Either way, his friend wasn’t helping. He gave John a light kick in the ankle.

“Why don’t you try Neil again?” Sherlock asked, jerking his head towards the middle of the lobby.

John frowned and pulled out his mobile. “Alright." He wandered over to the sofa.

“That’s better,” Sherlock whispered, ensuring his words were just loud enough for Madeline to hear.

Her red lips curved, and she looked up from the computer screen. “He left this morning, but hasn’t been back since. You might be in for a bit of a wait.”

He chuckled. “Neil probably got caught up at the bank again. He works too hard.”

Madeline nodded. “He does come in late a lot.”

He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I don’t suppose you’d allow us to wait in his flat, would you?”

She bit her lip. “It’d be against the rules. I’m not supposed to let guests in without a tenant’s consent.”

He flipped open Lestrade's badge, allowing her long enough to see the emblem before snapping it closed. “I promise I won’t steal anything.”

Her hand flew up to cover her mouth, and she let out a giggle. “I suppose I can make an exception, Detective Inspector.”

“I’d be in your debt, Madeline.”

She passed him a key card. Beneath it was a slip of paper with her number on it. “If you call me out for drinks, I promise I won’t stand you up.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He paused, allowing a slow smile to spread across his face. “What do you say we give Neil a taste of his own medicine? When he comes in, don’t tell him we’re here. He deserves a bit of a scare, don’t you think? We’ll all have a good laugh when he discovers we drank all his bourbon.”

“Mum’s the word.” She grinned.

Sherlock winked at her. “Goodnight, Madeline.”

She gave him a little wave, and he spun on his heel, false smile falling away.

Sometimes it was just too easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every comment makes me grin! Please take a moment to leave me a note. I truly appreciate it!


	24. Chapter 24

John let out a low whistle as they walked inside. "So, this is what living the posh life is like." Neil Henley’s flat took up the entire top floor of the building.

Sherlock shrugged. It made John want to poke him with a sharp stick, especially after his outrageous behavior with the clerk downstairs. The poor woman was going to be heartbroken when she never received a call from the manipulative detective. Though perhaps it was for the best.

Neil’s place had a modern, open floor plan. Shining dark wooden floors, a fully stocked bar, a gleaming kitchen, and best of all, a nearly 360 degree view. Dusk had fallen, and the multi-colored lights of the city skyline reflected on the glittering waters of the Thames.

Sherlock walked over to a sleek phone resting in its charging cradle on the kitchen counter. A red light blinked beside a round button. Sherlock pushed it.

There was a beep, followed by static.

"Hello, love. It's mum. Your father and I are having a lovely time in Jamaica, but I can't stop worrying about Rambo, Mrs. Kelly's Scottie. He swallowed a platoon of plastic army men, and I operated on him the day before we left. I called the office to check up on him but Doctor Finch refused to answer my questions. He told me to just enjoy my ruddy vacation and then hung up on me! The nerve of that man. I think he’s trying to take over my practice.”

There was a muffled murmur of a man’s voice, clearly annoyed.

“Oh dear, your father’s trying to steal my phone. Get away, Ian. Stop it!” There was a fumbling sound, and a stifled shriek. “I’m hanging up, you irritating man!”

Neil’s mother came back on the line. “Sorry about that, dear. Would you mind checking up on Rambo for me and giving me a ring? If I don’t pick up, it means your father is holding my mobile hostage. Please leave me a message. Ta."

There was another beep followed by a mechanical voice stating there were no more new messages.

John looked away from the riveting view. "What kind of name is Rambo for a Scottie?"

Sherlock shot him an impatient look. "Is that all you got from the message?"

"And that Neil's mum is a workaholic. What else is there?"

"She's a veterinarian, John. She operates on animals. Animals require sedation."

John's frown disappeared. "The anesthesia."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. Neil had access to it through his mother’s office."

He followed his friend into what appeared to be Neil’s bedroom. “But why would he kill Rebecca Frost?”

Sherlock flipped open a luggage bag laid out on the bed. It was empty, hopefully waiting to be filled and not abandoned. “Keep in mind that Ms. Frost’s death was an accident. Our killer didn’t intend to take her life, but merely interrogate the location of the notebook out of her. He only turned violent after he thought Miss Walker intended to blackmail him.”

Something niggled at the back of John’s mind, but he couldn’t articulate it. He wasn’t sure whether the odd feeling had to do with the case or not. He checked the calendar on his mobile. No, his mum’s birthday wasn’t until next week. He shrugged and resumed looked around Neil’s room.

Black and white photographs of cityscapes decorated the walls. The bedspread, bookcases, and side tables echoed the same modern style.

“He’s not exactly hurting for money, Sherlock. Why would he steal account information?”

“It’s not always about greed. There could be any number of motivations behind his actions. Fear, revenge, even sentiment.”

John nodded and ran a finger across a series of texts on personal finance. The books were aligned first by author, then by height. The door beside the bookcase led to a walk-in closet. Neil's clothes were organized by color and fabric type. A bit OCD then. On the dresser sat a cardboard box. It stuck out like a severed thumb, at odds with the stiff, regimented order of the rest of the man's belongings.

Sherlock carried it out of the closet and dumped the contents onto the bed. Pink ear buds, a white scarf, and a half empty bottle of Chanel tumbled out onto the bedspread. “It appears Stacy broke things off.”

“Neil could have been the one to do it.”

“Unlikely. You haven’t seen him.” Sherlock moved around the bed to open a side table drawer. Smirking, he tossed him a picture frame. “If Neil had broken it off, he wouldn’t have kept their picture hidden in his nightstand. He would have gotten rid of it. Sentiment. So predictable.”

The photograph showed a smiling couple standing by a fountain. With her willowy figure and bright, flowing sun dress, the blonde-haired woman could have easily passed as a model. Neil Henley, on the other hand, could not. Mrs. Hudson would have been horrified by the orange shirt the man wore. Even John could tell it didn’t compliment his complexion. The neon shade made him look like a pasty-faced Jack-o’-lantern. His teeth and nose, sadly perpetuated the image. Despite the fact that she wore flats, Stacy towered above Neil by at least two inches.

“I suppose you’re right,” John said finally.

“Of course I am.”

He shook his head as he stared down at the picture. “She was way out of his league. A woman like her would only be with a man like him because of money. Maybe she couldn’t handle the charade any longer or found a better offer with someone more her type.”

There was no reply. John looked up. He sighed and tossed the picture frame onto the bed. He’d been speaking to thin air. Sherlock had left the room like a silent, brown bird of prey. It was bloody annoying. He had half a mind to tie miniature bells to his friend’s laces.

He found Sherlock coming out of the office. “His laptop isn’t there, just a printer and more books. Nothing of note.”

They circled back to the living room, and John took a seat at the bar, spinning around on the revolving leather cushion so he could see the view out the window. “Are you certain he’s coming back?”

“Yes. Empty luggage bag. No lonely hangers in the closet. Only one pair of shoes missing. The man’s OCD. He wouldn’t leave on a trip without clothing. Or his ultra-hygienic pillow, I imagine.”

John looked up from his perusal of Neil’s considerable alcohol collection. There was a beeping noise, and then footsteps came down the hall towards them. The sound stopped.

His heart rate skyrocketed. Surprising a murder suspect as he came into his own flat didn’t seem like the best idea now. John’s hand crept into his coat pocket to where his Sig lay.

The footsteps resumed, and Neil Henley stepped into the living room. His shoulders sagged when he saw them.

“Good to see you again, Neil.” Sherlock gestured at the sofa, a pleasant smile on his face. “We need to chat.”

Neil ran a hand through his blond hair, causing it to stick up in all directions. He shuffled over to the sofa and sank onto a cushion. His eyes were bloodshot and a layer of stubble covered his jawline. Wrinkles creased his trousers and shirt.

Sherlock took a seat in a chair across from him. “I hope you don’t mind us dropping in. We’ve got a few questions for you.”

Neil let out a low breath and leaned forward. “I’ll save you the trouble, Mr. Holmes. I’d like to confess to the murder of Rebecca Frost.”

John gaped at him from his perch on the bar stool.

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. "Would you now?"

“Yes.”

Well, that was fast. Sherlock didn’t look nearly as pleased as John thought he would. Perhaps Sherlock had been hoping for more of a fight and the abrupt confession took all the fun out of it, like spoiling the ending to a much anticipated film.

Sherlock's phone chimed, but he ignored it, pale blue eyes fixed on the man before him. "You're confessing to purposefully killing her, correct?"

Neil frowned. "Yes. I committed cold-blooded, premeditated murder. Aren't you going to call the police now?"

Sherlock stood. "No, but I am going to offer you a ride to Scotland Yard.”

***

A consulting detective, an army doctor, and a murderer walked into a police station. It sounded like a joke, a bloody awful one.

They wove through the bustle of people to Lestrade’s office. Sherlock opened the door without knocking.

Lestrade looked up from an open file, a paper coffee cup in hand.

Neil made as if to sit down, but Sherlock waved him off. “There’s no point in sitting, as you’ll be relocated in the next minute.”

Lestrade sat back and folded the file shut. “What’s all this then? Have you made a new friend?”

"Why don't you tell the good inspector what you told me and John earlier?"

Neil fidgeted, then met Lestrade’s inquisitive gaze. "I murdered Rebecca Frost."

Lestrade's silver brows shot up. "Really? I was under the impression she died of pneumonia.”

"No. I killed her."

Lestrade blinked, then stood. "Alright. I'll just get you some handcuffs, and we’ll take a walk to another room where we can have a nice little chat."

He opened a desk drawer, pulled out a pair and snapped them onto the man’s wrists. “What’s your name?”

“Neil Henley.”

Lestrade informed him of his rights, then led Neil to an interrogation room. He gestured him through. "Go ahead and take a seat. I'll be there in a moment."

Lestrade shut the door and ushered them into the viewing room next door. The one-sided mirror showed the man taking a seat in a stiff metal chair.

“Well, he’s an odd duck.” Lestrade’s hand rasped across his five o’clock shadow.

“No,” Sherlock said, gaze intent on the handcuffed man. “He’s a liar.”

John straightened. “Then why’d we bring him here if he’s innocent?”

“I didn’t say he was innocent. Don’t you find it odd that he confessed immediately after we appeared? If he’d truly been so eager, why not come here on his own? Why now, with us? Neil Henley has a hidden agenda, and fortunately for us, his confession of murder conveniently keeps him here where we can keep an eye on him.”

“So, you don’t believe he murdered Rebecca Frost then?” Lestrade asked, folding his arms.

“No. Rebecca Frost died from respiratory distress as a result of anesthesia. The dosages were in small, measured amounts, clearly not intended to kill. If he was responsible, he would have confessed to accidental homicide, not premeditated murder. Why risk a lengthier sentencing?”

“Maybe it’s the guilt talking.” John shrugged.

Lestrade shook his head. “I’ve seen a lot of murderers. Neil Henley doesn’t have the look of a man with blood on his hands.”

John followed the inspector’s gaze. Neil’s nose wrinkled as he eyed a brown spot on the lino floor. One hand attempted to smooth the wrinkles down the front of his trousers.

“He may not be guilty of murder, but he is of lying. Here’s what we know so far.”

Sherlock provided a brief summary of the case for Lestrade. John noted he made only a minor mention of Vivian Walker and her involvement. Well, now. Respecting someone’s privacy. That was a first for Sherlock Holmes.

“I’d like a copy of the recording after you’ve finished questioning him,” Sherlock said. “John and I will head to the veterinary clinic to see whether any anesthesia bottles are missing. You’ll want to look into Neil’s ex-girlfriend, Stacy, as well.”

John chimed in. “Also, do your best to keep this away from the press. Henry Giles hired us to solve Ms. Frost’s death without involving the media.”

“You know, if you’re right, this isn’t even a murder,” Lestrade said, shaking his head. “False confessions aren’t really my division.”

A smug smile spread across Sherlock’s face. “No, it isn’t, but you’ll have to treat it as a murder until there’s irrefutable evidence otherwise, as Neil has so kindly confessed his crime to you.”

“Right.” The inspector's mouth twisted. “I’ll just go waste my time then.”

The door slammed shut.

John sighed.

“Oh, don’t be like that. He was reading through a cold case file when we walked in. It’s not as if he had anything better to do.” Sherlock removed his mobile from his coat pocket. “Now to locate the clinic.”

“Couldn’t we just ask Neil?” John glanced through the viewing window. Lestrade fiddled with the recording device on the table while the other man sat in the metal chair, smothering a yawn.

A sharp intake of breath drew his attention back to his friend. Sherlock stared at his phone, his face a stiff, expressionless mask.

“Are you alright?”

Sherlock reached out and gripped John's coat collar. He hauled him in close to his face. “Did you put the battery back in the _Maxima_?”

Startled, all John could do was nod.

Sherlock shoved him away and banged on the window. The force of his blows rattled through the room. “Lestrade!”

Lestrade flinched and dropped his pen. He left the room, leaving Neil to stare after him in bewilderment, then burst into the viewing room. “What in the bloody he-”

“We need your car and an ambulance now,” Sherlock said.

“What?” Lestrade sputtered.

“Why?” John asked, dread congealing in his stomach.

“What part of now do you not understand?” Sherlock shoved past Lestrade, and headed towards the door.

John caught Sherlock’s arm. “Tell us what’s going on.”

Sherlock turned on him. “Apparently Ms. Frost’s Bentley had a back-up security system in place which turned on after you placed the battery back inside the car.”

Sherlock held his mobile up.

_This alert is to notify you that your GPS back-up has been activated._

The time-stamp was an hour ago, during Neil’s confession at the flat.

Lestrade shot John a baffled look.

“What does it matter?” John asked.

Sherlock’s eyes blazed. “Don’t you get it? Our killer now has the coordinates to _Brackenwood_.”

John’s stomach plummeted. “Oh my god. Vivian. Doctor Reed.”

Lestrade took one look at their faces, then spun on his heel, striding out the open door. “We need all available units and an ambulance now!”

 

*******

 

Lestrade's lights flashed. Drivers up ahead squeezed to the side as much they could in the heavy traffic to allow them to pass. The siren blared, still jarring and loud within the confines of the car.

Sherlock called the house and Mycroft multiple times, but no one picked up. John sat in the back. One hand gripped his seat-belt, while the other braced against the side of the door. They careened around cars and up the sides of curbs, tires squealing. Sherlock sat in front barking out directions. To his credit, Lestrade didn’t argue and drove like a bat out of hell.

It was the first time in John’s life that he wished they could go faster. The red lights of the ambulance behind them reflected off the rear view mirror and onto his face.

If he hadn’t put the battery back in the _Maxima_ , if he’d just ignored the cold, they wouldn’t be in this situation. Lives wouldn’t be in danger.

Oh god. If something happened to Vivian or Doctor Reed, it would be all his fault.

"Maybe one of the staff at _Brackenwood_ accessed the GPS," Lestrade said.

"If you're going to say something, do try to ensure it isn't moronic." Sherlock's gaze remained locked on the road ahead. Despite his acidic words, his friend picked up his mobile. A few short words later, he hung up. "Henry Giles would have been the only other person with access to the GPS. He assured me he hasn't done so."

Lestrade nodded, and a strained silence settled beneath the clamoring of the siren. The closer they got to the house, the more focused Sherlock became, the frenetic energy from before sucked inward like a sun into a black hole. John knew it wasn’t truly calm he was seeing in his friend’s rigid posture. It was layer upon layer of control, the man steeling himself for what might lie ahead. John lifted his hand from its tight grip on the side of the door and examined it.

The tremor was absent.

A bitter smile tugged at his mouth.

The game was on.

But it wasn’t a game at all.

Not when lives were at stake. Lives of the people they cared about.

They sped up the driveway towards the front of the house. The passenger door flew open, and Sherlock jumped out before the car even had a chance to roll to a stop. Lestrade cursed and slammed on the brakes. They ran up the path after him.

Sherlock stood in the entryway. "We’re too late."

A trail of scarlet stained the soft, white carpet. It led down the hall towards the guest room. The house was silent but for John's heart pounding in his ears.

Please no. Oh god. Please no. The desperate litany gibbered over and over in his mind.

They entered the guest room, and John caught sight of a man’s shoes poking out from the far side of the bed. The heavy scent of iron filled his nose, reminding him of desert heat, sand, and death. He rushed forward, past Sherlock, and around to the other side.

Doctor Reed lay on the floor, his head and lower body covered in blood. A broken lamp lay beside him. Its cable had been torn out of the wall and wrapped around his upper thigh.

The makeshift tourniquet pointed to femoral artery damage.

Class III Hemorrhage. Gross blood loss. If the old man was alive, he’d need a blood transfusion.

John fell to his knees and jerked Doctor Reed’s shirt collar to the side.

His skin was cool and clammy to the touch. Vasoconstriction. Shock. Hypovolemia.

He checked for a pulse.

Nothing.

He pushed harder, jamming the flat of his fingers against the old man’s neck.

Nothing.

“Come on,” John breathed, adjusting the angle of his hand slightly.

Still nothing.

Wait.

There it bloody was, thready but there.

A heartbeat.

 “Get the medics in here!” John yelled.

But they were already there. Time somehow had sped up. They flowed around him, gently removing his other hand from the old man’s chest. He’d begun compressions instinctively. Another pair of hands continued where he’d left off and the emergency medical staff took over from there, transferring the old doctor onto a gurney and out of the room.

John was left kneeling on the floor, hands sticky with blood.

He didn’t care.

Doctor Reed was alive.

He staggered to his feet. A clicking noise and a flash. An officer he didn’t recognize was taking photographs of the room. Lestrade spoke into his radio, his face grim.

Sherlock wasn’t in the bedroom.

John’s gaze dropped to the carpet. The trail of blood continued into the bathroom.

Or from it.

His heart hiccupped.

Vivian.

He threw the bathroom door open and dashed inside. His shoes lost their purchase on the tile, and he shot out a flailing arm, barely catching hold of the towel rack. Regaining his balance, he took a steadying breath. Items from Doctor Reed's medical bag lay strewn across the floor, the puddle of water beneath his feet tinted red.

John nudged Sherlock aside so he could see the bathtub.

Only water remained.

"She's gone," John said, stunned. A wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm him.

Sherlock said nothing, his gaze still fixed on the empty tub.

John swallowed down bile. "What do you think he's going to do with her?"

“He intends to use her as a bargaining chip.” Sherlock’s low voice echoed off the walls.

That’s when John noticed the mirror above the sink.

There was a message on it, written in blood.

_Let’s trade._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please take a moment and leave a review. Your feedback means a lot to me!


	25. Chapter 25

"Oh my god." Another wave of nausea lurched at John's stomach. He stumbled forward and braced his elbows on the edge of the counter, hanging his head over the sink. The sight of his blood encrusted hands sickened him, and he turned on the tap. Scarlet bubbles ran down the drain as he scrubbed at his hands. Though they washed clean, the stain of his guilt remained.

Doctor Reed injured. Vivian taken.

It was all his fault.

Innocent people, not soldiers, hurt by his actions. It didn't matter that he couldn't have anticipated the consequences of placing the battery back in the car. He'd vowed to do no harm. And now his oath lay broken like Doctor Reed's blood-stained body.

John took in a trembling breath and let it out.

He looked up and found Sherlock watching him, the man's reflection marred by the bloody inscription across the mirror. Sherlock's eyes were cold, but his words were colder still. "This is no time to fall apart. Save your remorse for later. We have work to do."

John's control, as brittle as the scaphoid bone in the wrist, fractured. He wrenched around to face him.

"Don't you care that she's been abducted?" he shouted. "Or was Vivian just some pet project of yours for your own twisted entertainment?"

Sherlock's face remained stoic. "You foolishly continue to allow your heart to rule your head." His disdainful gaze raked over him. "Look at you. Your heart rate is accelerated, your blood pressure high. Your constant swallowing and gray pallor indicate nausea. Pupils dilated. You're under stress and not the adrenaline-boosting kind you prefer. This is emotional distress, stemming from guilt. Tell me. Where has your caring gotten you?"

In that moment, John wanted nothing more than to smash his fist into Sherlock's expressionless face. "You're pleased, aren't you? Another puzzle to solve. A life hanging in the balance. Does it feel like Christmas?"

"And what if it does? Despite our differing motivations, our end goals are the same. Save a life. Solve a death. If you truly cared for Miss Walker, you wouldn't be wasting my valuable time. Time that could be spent solving this case."

"Caring makes us human." John slammed his palm against the counter. "You should try it sometime."

"In case you haven't noticed, those we hunt aren't human. They're monsters, glutted on the hearts of the caring, the stupid, and the innocent. Preying upon the predator requires a similar mindset. My clarity of thought is dependent on cold logic, unfettered by sentiment. Surely this doesn't come as a surprise to you. You know my methods."

He shook his head. "You can't just excise caring like a cancerous tumor."

"I can. And I will." Sherlock stalked forward, pale blue eyes flashing. "And if you wish for us to be successful in safely retrieving Miss Walker, then you'll cease this foolish talk. We both know I'm her best chance. I can't afford to be distracted. Do you understand?"

The anger and frustration bled out of him so fast, it left his knees weak. "Yes."

He did understand. It wasn't that Sherlock didn't have the capacity for caring. He did. It showed in the way he included John in all his cases, a shared laugh with Lestrade, a violin song for Mrs. Hudson, and how he'd asked his trusted childhood physician to watch over Vivian Walker.

Sherlock's words echoed in his mind.

_I can't afford to be distracted._

He doubted the man even realized what he'd revealed in those six simple words.

As requested, he wouldn't push Sherlock any further, but he wasn't about to concede defeat. This was just the first battle in a long anticipated war. The head versus the heart. He'd consider it a victory indeed if even a small piece of the latter worked its way free.

It wouldn't do for the slayer of monsters to become that which he hunted.

"I'm sorry for putting the battery back in the  _Maxima_." John exhaled the words out, his chest aching.

"You couldn't have known. Though I'm sure an apology to Miss Walker wouldn't be out of order."

A pained chuckled escaped his throat. "I'll be sure to tell her if I see her again."

Sherlock's expression tightened. "I'll make sure of it."

Lestrade came into the bathroom. "There's no sign of anyone else in the manor, though every drawer and book has been tossed about."

"He was looking for the notebook. When he couldn't find it, he devised an alternate plan and left," Sherlock said.

The inspector eyed the message on the mirror. "I can see that. Can you give me a description of the missing woman?"

"She has a name," John said. Irritation made his tone sharp. "Vivian Walker."

"Right." Lestrade flipped open a fresh page on his notepad.

"Shoulder length red hair, green eyes, 5'11", 11 stone, wearing a blue camisole. She was wrapped up in cling film as well. I imagine our killer will have a difficult time getting her out of it, should he decide to do so," Sherlock said.

John staggered back against the counter as a truly repugnant thought entered his mind. Vivian was half-naked, vulnerable, and unconscious. What if the killer decided to entertain himself? He ground his teeth together and shoved the horrifying image out of his mind. Sherlock was right. He needed to get a hold of himself. Borrowing worry wouldn't help her.

Lestrade's scratching pen paused. "Wrapped in cling film?" His eyes shifted to the tub and the medical equipment on the floor. "What in the bloody hell was going on in here?"

"It's complicated," John said, hesitating as an officer entered the bathroom with a camera. "Can we discuss it later, in private?"

Lestrade's brow furrowed, but he nodded. "I'll put an APW out for her."

"You won't find her," Sherlock said, as they headed back into the guest room. "He'll be sure to keep her hidden until he's ready for the exchange."

"Perhaps he'll make a mistake."

"He already has." Sherlock nodded at the bloody mess on the ground. "If we don't track him down, Mycroft certainly will. He might even be willing to do legwork after he sees what's been done to his carpet."

John sucked in a breath. "Have you spoken to him? Can he allow us access to the security camera footage?"

Sherlock shook his head. "All calls are going directly to voice mail. There's no doubt we'll hear from him once he checks the cameras though."

Lestrade cleared his throat. "In the meantime, would you mind walking us through what happened?"

Sherlock nodded, and they followed him to the front of the house, carefully skirting around the streaks of blood.

"There's no sign of forced entry. That means our killer knocked on the door. When Doctor Reed answered, shots were fired. The first bullet missed." Sherlock pointed at a dark spot in the wall. "It lodged there. Judging by the size of the hole, it's .40 caliber."

"How could he miss from such a short distance?" John asked. It was a piss poor shot.

Sherlock moved to stand in the doorway and slowly raised his arm. He shook his head. "There are too many variables. His gun could have caught in his pocket. He could have been surprised to find an old man answering the door. Doctor Reed could have lunged forward, startling him. Regardless, the second bullet made contact. It hit Doctor Reed in the leg, near the femoral artery."

Sherlock stood before a dark pool of blood on the carpet. "He fell to the ground and the shock kept him there while the killer searched the house. I doubt our shooter was expecting Doctor Reed's tenacity though."

Sherlock sidestepped over to a decorative table with a mirror above it. Bloody hand prints covered the wood surface. "The old man dragged himself up, and he went after his attacker."

They continued into the bedroom.

"The killer was in the midst of dragging Miss Walker out of the bathroom when Doctor Reed tackled him. They slammed into the wall." There was a dent, a splash of blood, and black scuff marks along the floor boards.

"He overpowered Doctor Reed and pistol whipped him, knocking him out. He then walked back into the bathroom to finish retrieving Miss Walker, but he stopped here and looked back."

Bloody footprints returned to where the doctor had been.

"He wiped blood off Doctor Reed's face, then returned to the bathroom to leave his message."

Sherlock paused, eyeing the broken lamp still on the floor. The medics had cut the cord, instead of taking the time to unwrap it from the old man's leg. "Doctor Reed regained consciousness long enough to reach for the cable. If he hadn't managed to slow the bleeding, he would be dead."

John swallowed. It appeared their reluctant killer was reluctant no longer. Then again, he'd already tried to run over Vivian. It wasn't much of a leap to shooting innocent people after that. Once a boundary like that was crossed, it became easier and easier to step across the next.

They reentered the bathroom, and Sherlock examined the bloody words scrawled across the mirror. "You won't find any fingerprints. He wore nitrile gloves with pebbled fingertips. If his hands had been bare, there would have only been a single variegation on the down stroke. Instead, the blood beaded up unevenly across the surface of the rubber."

"What'd he do next?" Lestrade looked up from his notepad.

Sherlock shook his head, his normal snide remarks absent. "He dragged Miss Walker out of the bathroom. That's why there's so much water on the carpet here and red streaks of blood, moving towards the door."

"Why not just carry her?" John asked.

"The wet cling film would have made it difficult to grasp hold of her. Though it's likely he didn't have the strength. His shoe size is a 9, small for a man."

John frowned down at his own shoes. Shoe size didn't necessarily indicate strength.

Sherlock left the room, and they followed him out to the front of the house. Rain had come through before they'd arrived in Lestrade's car. Four police cars fanned out around the perimeter, and their blinding headlights cut across the gleaming wet ground. "There isn't enough evidence remaining to determine what type of car he drove. If there was any, it's now been muddied by all the vehicles."

"Is there anything else you can tell me about the perpetrator?"

Sherlock's eyes glittered. "He's right-handed. Not a very good shot. I expect we'll hear from him in the next day or two, hopefully sooner."

"How will he contact you?" Lestrade asked.

"My mobile number and email address are on my website, not to mention on John's blog. I'm certain he'll find a way. He wants the notebook, after all."

* * *

The sun crept up the horizon, golden light filtering through the low level clouds and into the windows of the living room. It was the least damaged portion of the manor. Faint red footprints tracked the carpet, and only the few books inside the Chinese chest had been knocked about. The library had been a disaster, every book torn from its shelf, shredded bits of pages littering the ground. Even Sherlock had been unable to suppress a wince at the sight.

The forensic team had taken all night to comb through the rest of the house. As Sherlock predicted, they hadn't found any additional evidence.

Sherlock tapped away at his laptop, his mouth twisted into a scowl. A long cable connected the computer to the nearest security camera, but so far his friend hadn't been able to access any of the data. The cup of tea next to him had long since gone cold. John gave up replacing it after the third time it had gone untouched.

Lestrade walked inside and let out a sigh as he took a seat in Vivian's chair. It was odd to see someone else sitting there. "Well, the team's nearly finished. Any word from Mycroft?"

"No." Sherlock didn't look up. "Since he hasn't responded to my attempts to hack into his security system, it's likely he's off the grid doing government work."

"I see." Lestrade leaned forward. "Well, it's time we had a chat about what exactly was going on here. Please tell me it wasn't some kind of experiment of yours."

Sherlock sighed. "Explain, John."

The inspector turned his attention to John, eyebrows raised.

"This is strictly off the record, understand," John said.

Lestrade frowned. "I can't make any promises. You know that."

"It's for her sake, not ours. We were trying to save her life." He shifted in his seat. It took him a moment to assemble the last week into a coherent string of events.

"We followed her to a club to question her about the case," John said. He related a rather abridged version of what had happened, skipping over Vivian's withdrawals, the barn chase, her suicide attempt, and the brawl in the pond. Instead, he focused on the consequences of her head trauma and how they'd both been trying to help her.

Lestrade listened, brown eyes wide by the end of it. "Let me get this straight. You put her on ice, like a fish at the market?"

"More or less," Sherlock muttered, gaze still intent on the monitor.

"Blimey. Will she be alright after being dragged out of the tub like that?"

The tapping on the keyboard paused, and Sherlock's eyes flicked up from the computer screen.

Both men watched him, waiting on an answer he didn't want to give. John's throat constricted. "I don't know. Vivian didn't receive the full treatment we'd intended, and the drastic change in temperature may have caused her harm." Not to mention being dragged to who knew where. "Rapid rewarming can result in shock, cardiac arrhythmias, and a severe drop in blood pressure."

Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "So, that's a no."

"What do we do then?"

Sherlock closed his laptop. "We gather as much information as we can before our killer contacts us for the trade."

"Why was he so sure the notebook was here?" Lestrade asked.

"He was operating under the impression that Miss Walker was trying to blackmail him. Tracking the book down meant tracking her down. He's most certainly now aware of my and John's involvement, and as he was unable to find the notebook in the short time he was here, he chose to abduct Miss Walker, guessing correctly that we would be inclined to make the swap."

"Should we head back to the station?"

"Not yet. We need to visit Henley & Finch Veterinary Clinic on York Street first. I believe the anesthesia bottle used on Ms. Frost was taken from there. I'd like to question the staff."

"Right." Lestrade pulled out his car keys. "That's as good a place

to start as any."

* * *

The scent of wet dog assailed John's nose as they walked inside the veterinary clinic. A long-haired golden retriever and her equally long-haired owner stood waiting at the front counter. Great drops of water slid off clothing and drenched hair to puddle onto the brushed concrete floor. The sudden downpour had clearly caught the two off guard. Fortunately for the three of them, the walk from the car had been short due to Lestrade's ability to park wherever he wanted.

The receptionist handed the woman a prescription bottle. "This refill should last another month. Ring Doctor Finch if the inflammation doesn't go down."

The woman and her dog moved to the side as they approached the desk.

"Can I help you?"

Lestrade flipped open his badge. "We need to speak with Doctor Finch immediately."

The brown-eyed woman stood, hands all aflutter. "I'm afraid he's spaying a litter of Corgis at the moment. Would you mind waiting in his office?"

Lestrade nodded, and the flustered young woman led them down the hall. A warbling howl from a lonely dog competed with the piercing caterwaul of a highly offended moggie, the sounds penetrating through the doors of the examination rooms. She waved them into the veterinarian's office.

"Arnie- I mean, Doctor Finch, will be right with you," she said before hurrying out, cheeks pink.

Sherlock wandered behind the desk, eying the crooked stack of books and files piled to one side. A number of certifications decorated the walls.

John and Lestrade made to sit down.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." Sherlock leaned his face close to the top of the executive desk. He gave an audible sniff and his lip curled. "The receptionist and Arnie are sleeping together. No surface has gone untouched."

John lurched away from the chair so quickly he smacked into Lestrade who was doing the same.

"How do you know?" Lestrade vigorously wiped his hand against the side of his coat.

"She used his first name. Her floral perfume is practically embedded into the desk's surface. The stacks of documents are moved off to the side, and the picture frames on the walls are slightly askew. It wasn't caused by an earthquake. Also, there are lines of dried sweat and-"

"That's enough. We get it." John grimaced. He moved to stand in the middle of the office, hands tucked safely into his pockets.

A slender man in his forties stepped into the room, the deep scowl on his face visible despite his sizable walrus mustache. Doctor Finch, John presumed. The vet gave a shrill whistle and a truly enormous Great Dane bounded through the still open door, claws tapping across the floor.

Doctor Finch pointed to the corner. "Atlas, sit."

The gigantic glossy black dog obeyed, tongue lolling out of his mouth.

The man strode behind his desk before acknowledging them. "I hope you have a good reason for interrupting me during surgery."

"One homicide, two attempted murders, and a kidnapping. Are those good enough reasons for you, or should we add obstruction of justice to the list as well?" Sherlock asked.

The vet sat down hard. "Murder?"

"We'd like to ask you a few questions." Lestrade flipped open his badge once again.

"I-I, alright," Doctor Finch stuttered, "Won't you sit down?"

Lestrade coughed. "We'd rather stand, if you don't mind."

"Have any items gone missing from your inventory lately?" Sherlock asked.

Doctor Finch nudged his spectacles up his nose, the thick lenses magnifying his watery blue eyes. "You just mentioned murder and kidnapping and now you're asking about my inventory?"

"Yes. Do keep up. You track your medical supplies, correct?"

"We do, yes. But I don't understand what that has to do with-"

Lestrade cut in. "Just answer the question, Doctor Finch."

"I don't know. I'll need to take a look." The vet opened up a drawer and removed a three ring binder stuffed full of papers. He began to sort through it, mumbling under his breath.

John glanced over at the monstrous dog. The Great Dane stood the moment his master's attention strayed. Floppy triangular ears perked up in interest. Atlas padded over to greet him, nudging his big wet nose against his hand. John laughed softly and scratched at the dog's head. His tail swished back and forth, alternately smacking against Lestrade and Sherlock's legs.

The inspector smiled down at the animal while Sherlock stared up at the ceiling and heaved a sigh.

John gave the dog a final pat on the head, then refocused his attention on Doctor Finch, who still searched through his numerous documents.

The Great Dane gave a small whine and looked up at John with big mournful eyes. Unable to help himself, he petted the dog a few more times.

"Ah, here it is," Doctor Finch said, running a finger down a handwritten list. "Let's see. A bulk order of diabetic dog food never arrived. Oh. A box of castration bands are back-ordered."

John winced. He missed the next part of the conversation as something large and heavy shoved itself between his legs. He was propelled back into the bookcase. His breath left his chest with a whoosh.

Atlas lifted his giant head, and John's feet left the ground, all his weight agonizingly centered on his groin. A strangled cry burst from his mouth. He scrambled to grab hold of a bookshelf behind him to reduce some of the pressure, but his hands couldn't find purchase.

Bloody hell. He was never going to be able to have sex again.

"Atlas! Corner, now."

The dog dropped his head, and John slumped to the ground, hands falling forward to protect himself against further abuse.

Atlas slunk back into the corner.

John coughed, surprised to discover his testicles didn't shoot out of his mouth.

The vet peered at him over the top of his spectacles. "You should never pet a dog without consulting its owner first. Once given attention, Atlas requires at least ten minutes of petting, else he gets very upset."

"Noted," John croaked out.

He heard muffled laughter and glared up at Lestrade and Sherlock, who were both grinning down at him.

Doctor Finch resumed his perusal of the list. "Ah, yes. And a bottle of anesthesia went missing. There's a note here indicating the disposal service recycled the wrong one by mistake. A new one was delivered."

Sherlock's amused smile fled. "Was it desflurane?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

"Do you know Neil Henley?"

"Yes, of course. He's my business partner's son."

"Has he been acting strange at all lately?"

The vet shrugged. "That boy is highly strung. Works a lot. He came in here last week to do the accounts, even though they weren't due until the end of the month."

"Have you met his girlfriend?"

An incredulous laugh bubbled up out of the man, his mustache quivering. He removed his spectacles and polished them with a corner of his lab coat. "Neil has a girlfriend?"

"We're done here," Sherlock said.

There was a knock and the door opened, revealing a lab technician. "Doctor Finch, I asked you to order more ketamine-"

She froze in the doorway as she caught sight of them. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize anyone else was in here."

The vet waved a hand. "It's alright, Elizabeth. The ketamine came in yesterday. I put it in the storage room. Third shelf."

Her lips pursed. "It's not there. I just looked. We can't finish the scheduled surgeries without it."

"You're obviously not looking in the correct spot." Doctor Finch stomped around his desk and down the hall.

John got up with a groan.

"What's ketamine?" Lestrade asked as they followed the veterinarian to the storage room in the back.

"It's a drug used for starting and maintaining anesthesia," John said. "It's used on animals and humans."

"Our killer likely picked some up after taking Miss Walker," Sherlock said, his voice low.

"Lovely," Lestrade muttered.

A series of metal shelves laden with various medical supplies and equipment filled the storage room. The vet paused in front of one shelf and frowned. "I don't understand. It was here last night when I left."

"When was that?" John asked.

"Half past eight."

They'd been at Scotland Yard with Neil then.

"Do you have a security system here?" Lestrade asked. "We'd like to take a look at the video footage."

"Yes, of course. Davis has got the system on his computer." Doctor Finch stalked down a different corridor and they trailed behind. Perhaps this was what dogs felt like all the time. At least the man hadn't whistled for them.

Doctor Finch opened a door. A young man in a lab coat blinked up from a computer, a piece of red licorice hanging from his mouth. "Hullo."

"Answer their questions, Davis."

Lestrade filled the man in on what they were looking for.

Davis tapped away at the keyboard, then shook his head. "The video only turns on if the alarm goes off. There's no footage."

"Do you have an event log showing access to the building?"

The young man nodded, and they crowded behind him to peer over his shoulder. "Hmmm. It says here that the office was accessed last night at 10:30pm."

"Is the security code different for everyone?" Sherlock asked.

"No, there's just the one."

Sherlock wove around them, then headed for the door.

Doctor Finch caught Sherlock's arm. "You were just talking about murder and now I discover someone has been stealing my supplies! Aren't you going to tell me what the hell is going on?"

Sherlock shrugged out of the man's grasp. "No, I'm not. Go back to your spaying."

With that, his friend swept out of the room.

Lestrade handed the vet a card. "Call this number and an officer will come out to take a report from you regarding your missing items. Thank you for your cooperation."

The inspector then headed down the corridor after Sherlock.

Doctor Finch stood staring after them, red in the face and sputtering.

John tapped him on the shoulder.

The man whirled to face him, mustache bristling. "What?"

John shot him a pained smile. "Do you have any ice?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take a moment to leave a comment. Your feedback means a lot to me! :-) Happy Friday!


	26. Chapter 26

John adjusted the ice pack, uncaring of the large wet spot forming on the front of his trousers. Pain relief trumped dignity any day.

“Why are we stopping?” Sherlock asked, glancing up from his phone.

Lestrade parked the car in front of a cheerful looking cafe. “It’s called eating.”

John peered out the window, face brightening. “Can you get me up a pastrami sandwich?”

“Sure.”

“We’re wasting time that could be spent questioning Neil Henley,” Sherlock said.

The inspector removed his wallet and waved away John’s handful of notes. “What’s the hurry if Neil isn’t our killer?”

“He’s involved.”

Lestrade let out a sigh and picked up his mobile. “Fine. I’ll have Donovan start questioning him, so we’ll have answers by the time we get back.”

"No," Sherlock said. "I'll do it. Don't allow anyone else to speak to him."

John swallowed. The look in his friend’s eyes was decidedly unfriendly.

Lestrade looked ready to protest.

"I'll sit in on the questioning,” John said, trying to keep the peace.

Sherlock shook his head. "No. The two of you can watch from the viewing window while you stuff your faces. I require one on one time with Mr. Henley."

Lestrade caught John's eye, one brow raised. John nodded. With Sherlock in his current mood, it would be better to allow him to do as he pleased and only intervene if necessary.

Sherlock might be able to extract answers from Neil that no one else could.

***

Lestrade handed him a cup of coffee. John nodded his thanks. It was hot and black, just the way he liked it.

Only a few scattered crumbs remained where their sandwiches had been. The ache in his stomach had disappeared, leaving just the fading pain in his groin. Thank god no permanent damage had been done. Life wouldn’t have been worth living.

For the past twenty minutes, Sherlock had sat motionless, his icy gaze fixed on their increasingly agitated prisoner. He refused to respond to any questions or comments from Neil. It was unnerving on this end. Having been the recipient of Sherlock’s discomfiting regard before, John could sympathize.

Sherlock finally moved. He lifted a hand onto the metal table top, and drummed his fingers across it.

Neil jumped at the sharp sound.

"How long have you worked for Selby Jennings?"

"Just a year." Neil's eyes jiggered along with the movement of Sherlock's hand.

"Tell me about Stacy."

"She was my girlfriend."

"Why did she break your relationship off?"

Neil folded his arms across his chest. "She said I was smothering her, that I wanted too much, too soon. She left to stay with her mother in Dublin."

"When did she leave?"

"Five days ago."

Sherlock tilted his head. "Speaking of smothering, did you enjoy it?"

The man's eyes widened. “What?”

“Killing Rebecca Frost.”

Neil flinched.

Sherlock leaned forward. “Suffocation is an unpleasant way to die. A quick, vicious strangling would have been kinder. You could have simply crushed her windpipe. It only takes ten pounds of pressure. Instead, you drew the process out. Was it more fun that way?”

Neil’s shoulders curled inward as if he were trying to make himself a smaller target.

“Giles found her dead, tears on her face. Rebecca taught you music, cared for you, and you repaid her with fear, pain, and death. Are you pleased?”

Neil’s pale face went grey. He staggered to his feet and over to a corner of the room. Bracing his arms around his middle, he retched. John looked away, but he could still hear liquid splatter against the floor. He swallowed, the coffee now sour in his mouth.

Neil wiped at his mouth with his sleeve, his breathing ragged. "I had to," he croaked. "She was going to ruin everything."

"How?"

"I left my composition notebook after one of my lessons. Rebecca found account information from my work inside it. She threatened to report me, accused me of breaking the law for having it. She said that if I didn’t come forward at the investment bank that she’d take it to my supervisor."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Why was it in your notebook?”

The man ran a trembling hand across his face. “I bring reports home on occasion. She refused to give it back. There was no reasoning with her.”

Neil skirted around the mess on the floor and fell back into his seat. "You have to understand. I have a life, a good job, a bloody penthouse. I even had a girlfriend. I was finally successful."

"So you killed her."

He nodded.

"How?"

The man’s chin jerked up. “You know exactly how I did it.”

“I’d like to hear it in your own words.” Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his mouth.

Neil's eyes narrowed. "I stole a bottle of anesthesia from my mother's veterinarian office."

“Go on.”

The man's posture stiffened. “What does it matter? I used the anesthesia to kill her. Isn’t that enough?”

"Did your mother know?"

A truly horrified expression washed over Neil's face. "God, no. She had no idea. I messed with the disposal service report to hide the fact that I stole the bottle."

“What about Vivian Walker?”

His brow furrowed. “What about her?”

“Have you interacted with her much?”

Neil shook his head. “No. I met her in passing at the memorial service.”

“And you haven’t seen her since?”

“No.” The man straightened in his seat and his expression hardened. “I’m through answering questions.”

Sherlock’s mouth curved. “Thank you. You’ve been most informative.”

With one final drum of his fingertips against the table, Sherlock left the interrogation room.

Lestrade and John met him at the door and they headed inside the inspector’s office.

“Well, it certainly appears to be a straightforward murder case.” Lestrade took a seat behind his desk. “I didn’t see guilt before, but I certainly do now, along with self-loathing and regret.”

“He’s literally sick over it.” John grimaced. He would have said more, but he shut his mouth at the sight of Sherlock’s incredulous face.

"How do you function? Must you take everything at face value? God, I’m surrounded by idiots.”

John shared a glowering glance with Lestrade, then looked up at his friend. “Enlighten us.”

Sherlock flung himself into a seat. “It’s obvious he didn't do it. He suspects how it was done, but he doesn’t know exactly how, hence his defensiveness when I questioned him for details. Our killer didn’t intend to kill, but Neil doesn’t know that, so he took more blame than he needed to."

“You think he’s protecting someone?” John asked slowly.

“Yes. He went to his mother’s office to cover the killer’s tracks, then hurriedly confessed to us when we showed up at his flat. While he was at it, why didn’t he also confess to attempting to murder Miss Walker? He has little knowledge of the former event and none of the latter. Either he's a very stupid accomplice or he’s protecting someone.”

Sergeant Sally Donovan appeared in the open doorway, folder in hand. "Sir, I found information on Stacy Dobson, the ex-girlfriend."

Lestrade took the file. "Good work. Look into Neil’s parents next, along with his co-workers and close friends.”

“Fine, but I want to go on record saying that this a complete waste of my time. He’s already confessed.”

“Noted.” Lestrade flipped through the documents.

She sneered at Sherlock. “Defending murderers now? I always knew you’d be working on the other side one day.”

“Still a sergeant? I always knew you wouldn’t be promoted after Dimmock transferred.”

Her head jerked back as if struck, then her brown eyes narrowed. Her scowl turned gleeful as her gaze swept over to John. “I hope you had the decency to put whatever bit him out of its misery. Who knows where he’s been?”

John’s eyes darted to Sherlock. His bland expression gave nothing away. The collar of the brown coat wasn't high enough to cover the angry red bite Vivian had left beneath Sherlock's ear. John had forced his friend to remove the plaster to allow air to get to the wound. Perhaps he should have let him keep it on a bit longer.

“Donovan,” Lestrade said, a warning edge to his voice.

“I’m leaving, sir. Off to go waste my time.” She closed the door behind her. It didn’t shut quickly enough to block one last muttered invective aimed at Sherlock. “Freak.”

John had no idea why Sally despised Sherlock, but the intensity of her hatred hadn’t waned in the last few years. If anything, it had grown more potent over time, like aged whiskey. He could certainly use a shot right about now.

Lestrade cocked his head, his brown eyes now riveted on the mark on Sherlock’s neck. “What happened?”

Sherlock’s mouth quirked. “A dog bit me.”

John choked.

“A dog,” the inspector repeated, his tone flat.

“Yes.” Sherlock nodded at the file. “Can we get on with the case?”

“Right.” Lestrade looked back at the paperwork. "Stacy Dobson, twenty-eight, interior designer. Newly single according to her Facebook account. Parents divorced. Her father, Matthew, is an engineer. Georgia, a retired teacher. Nothing stands out."

Sherlock’s phone buzzed. He glanced down at the screen, then stood. “Excuse me.”

The glass wall on one side of the inspector’s office offered a clear view of the corridor. Sherlock paced up and down the long hall. His voice carried through the door. “I see. When will he be out of surgery?”

It was hospital then, regarding Doctor Reed. God, he hoped it was good news.

Sherlock traced the outline of the bite mark on the side of his neck as he spoke.

"If that's a dog bite, then I'm a monkey's uncle," Lestrade said.

"It isn't."

Lestrade leaned forward. "What happened?"

John hesitated. It wouldn't be right to go into detail about Vivian's situation, but it couldn't hurt for the man to know this tiny bit of information. Perhaps it would help the inspector to remember she was more than a faceless victim. "Vivian bit him."

The inspector stared. "You’re not serious."

“It’s true. I swear.”

Lestrade gaped. “My god, you mean, he’s got a love bite?”

A hysterical giggle welled up inside John. Sherlock Holmes with a love bite. Now that was hilarious. He shook his head before Lestrade went into cardiac arrest. "No, no, no. Certainly not. More like a hate bite. In Vivian's defense, she wasn't really in her right mind when she did it. She was ill at the time."

Lestrade’s stunned expression faded, and he chuckled. "It sounds like she was in her right mind to me. I already like her, and I haven't even met her."

"You would. She doesn't take any crap from him."

"Really?"

“Oh yeah.” John nodded towards the window. “He likes her too, though he'd rather disembowel himself with a spoon than admit it."

"How can you tell?"

“She’s responsible for his coat being covered in paint, and he didn’t murder her."

Lestrade’s eyebrows nearly shot off his forehead. "I wish I could have seen that.” His gaze flicked back to Sherlock. “I wondered about the brown coat. Not really his usual style."

"It's his father's."

Lestrade blinked.

"What?" John asked.

"It's just odd, isn't it? Thinking of Sherlock Holmes as having parents. I'd have thought he was a test tube baby or something."

"Or sprouted out of the forehead of some scientist?"

They both laughed.

Sherlock came back into the room. "So glad to see you’re enjoying yourselves. I hope that means you’ve made some progress in my absence."

John’s smile vanished. A wave of guilt washed over him, leaving him cold. "How’s Doctor Reed?"

“In surgery. There’s significant damage to his left leg, but they’re hopeful they can repair it enough so he can walk again. He’s also suffering from a concussion and considerable blood loss. It’ll be a day or two before he’ll be coherent enough for questioning.”

John swallowed. “Have you notified his family?”

“There’s no one local. Administration left a message with his daughter who lives in Germany.”

“What about his wife?”

“She’s been dead for twenty years.”

John didn’t think it was possible to feel worse than he already did. He should have been used to being wrong by now. He closed his eyes. The old man was alone in hospital without any family to support him. And who knew where Vivian was or what condition she was in. God, this was a nightmare.

“Stop it,” Sherlock said, his tone sharp.

John looked up, frowning.

“You’re doing it again. Save your flagellation for later.”

John took a deep breath and channeled his guilt into a different direction. "I don't understand. Why hasn’t our kidnapper contacted you yet? Why not do the swap immediately?"

Sherlock resumed his seat. "It’s all about power. He wants us to know he’s in control. Also, he’s likely busy determining the best location and parameters for the exchange."

"What do we do in the meantime?"

"We devise a plan to counteract his."

“But we don’t know what he’s planning,” Lestrade said.

Sherlock stared at them. “Oh, come on. This is simple. It’s child’s play.”

“And we both know who the child is,” John muttered.

The office door opened, revealing Donovan and a grim-faced Chinese man. “Sir, this is Mr. Chen from Selby Jennings. He’s their head of security. Says he’s here for an appointment with you.”

“I didn’t-” Lestrade followed Donovan’s glare over to Sherlock who merely smiled and set his mobile phone on the corner of the desk. “Right.”

“Why don’t you take a seat, Mr. Chen.” Lestrade gestured to the last open chair. Donovan shook her head and left.

Mr. Chen sat and folded his hands in his lap. “I’ve been informed we’ve had a security breach, that Neil Henley has confessed to murder, and that a woman has been abducted, her safety dependent upon the release of client account information. Is that correct?”

John frowned, wary of the man’s cool demeanor and how he’d reduced the complex situation down to a single sentence.

“Yes.” Lestrade tossed his paper coffee cup into the bin. “You’re correct.”

“The document.” Mr. Chen held out a hand, eyes flat. It wasn’t a question.

Lestrade removed the slip of paper from a plastic bag and handed it over. Forensic testing had only revealed Sherlock and John’s fingerprints, nothing more. Time had erased the rest.

The man’s gaze flicked across the page. “Neil Henley had no business having this report. His job was to test and confirm the security of our database.”

“He’s a hacker?” Lestrade asked.

“Was. Selby Jennings intends to prosecute him within the fullest extent of the law. Between that and a charge of murder, he’ll never leave his prison cell. I’ll need to take possession of his mobile phone and laptop, as they were both provided by our company.”

“We don’t have the laptop. It wasn’t at his flat,” the inspector said. “We do have his mobile, but I’m afraid we won’t be returning it to you until this murder case is resolved.”

“It is integral Mr. Henley’s laptop is found as soon as possible. The software on it could cause a great deal of harm.”

The kettle went off in John’s brain. “Could someone use it to remote access GPS systems?”

“Among other things.” Mr. Chen’s ominous tone turned insistent. “The computer must be found immediately.”

Lestrade’s eyes narrowed. “You’re more than welcome to look for it yourself, but Miss Walker’s abduction takes precedence.”

One thin brow raised. “What is your plan?”

Lestrade nodded at Sherlock. “Ask him. He’s the one who contacted you.”

“It’s obvious,” Sherlock said. “We give the kidnapper what he wants.”

What? That was the plan? To just give it to him? What about all the people whose accounts would be violated?

Mr. Chen’s cold stare swiveled back to the inspector, who shrugged.

“Allowing this information to fall into criminal hands is out of the question. Our clients’ privacy is our top priority," Mr. Chen said.

Wait. That wasn’t right either. John straightened in his chair. “What about Vivian, isn’t she also a priority?”

Black eyes met his challenging gaze. “Her loss will be most unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate? We’re talking about a woman’s life here, not an unexpected change in weather,” John said, his voice rising.

This time, Mr. Chen turned towards him fully. “How do you know the woman you wish to save isn’t a part of these illegal activities?”

John stared. “That’s absolutely ridiculous, not to mention irrelevant.”

Sherlock cut in. “Mr. Chen, I understand you take your position as head of security at Selby Jennings quite seriously. Your commitment to protecting client information is commendable.”

John couldn’t believe what he'd just heard. His friend had actually complimented the cold bastard.

“With your vast experience in mind, what would you suggest as the best course of action?”

Okay, he had to be hallucinating. Not only did Sherlock Holmes never refer to anyone else other than himself as having ‘vast experience’, he never, ever asked for advice.

Lestrade dropped the folder he’d been holding.

Mr. Chen nodded. “I knew you had a head for business, Mr. Holmes. It is likely Miss Walker’s poor choices have led her into this situation. Selby Jennings cannot be held responsible for the consequences she is facing, but we are responsible for ensuring our client information is safe. I’ll go ahead and secure this document and we’ll just allow the dice to fall as they may. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, you’ve been most thorough,” Sherlock said.

“Excellent.” Mr. Chen rose to his feet.

Sherlock picked up his mobile and pressed a button. Voices filled the quiet room.

Very familiar voices.

“Why don’t you take a seat, Mr. Chen?”

There was the sound of a chair scooting across the floor. “I’ve been informed we’ve had a security breach…”

A slow grin spread across John’s face. Having a bloody genius on their side definitely had its perks.

Sherlock touched his mobile again, pausing the recording. “I’m certain there are a number of news stations who would be very interested in this little chat of ours. I doubt it would be good for business if it became public knowledge that Selby Jennings values data over an innocent young woman’s life.”

For the first time, Mr. Chen’s expression changed. His mouth thinned to a fine line. “You can't threaten to blackmail me in front of the detective inspector.”

Lestrade sat back in his chair, posture relaxed, eyes twinkling. “I haven’t heard any threats, have you, John?”

John bit the inside of his lip to keep from laughing. “No, none at all."

Sherlock shot Mr. Chen a smug smile. “You’re right. I do have a head for business.”

Mr. Chen’s nostrils flared, and he snatched the paper off the desk.

“That won’t help you,” Sherlock said.

The man stared down at the document. He let go, and it fluttered to the floor.

The page was blank.

Where had the original gone? John looked from Sherlock to Lestrade. Lestrade winked.

Bloody hell. Was he the only one who didn’t know what the hell was going on?

Mr. Chen’s dumbstruck expression said otherwise. The man sat down. “What do you want?”

“Only your complete and total cooperation,” Sherlock said.

The man looked like he wanted to run Sherlock through with a sword, then possibly himself. “You have it.”

“I intend to provide the original document in exchange for Miss Walker. As with any business transaction, our killer will need to confirm he has access by logging into one of the accounts. You and your security team will create a false database, which will temporarily replace the current system right before he attempts to login. Once Miss Walker is safe, you can revert back to the old database. I recommend you issue new account numbers and passwords to all your clients afterwards. You have until midnight. Text me when it’s ready.”

John blinked. It was a good plan.

“It’ll take time to create a system that looks believable,” Mr. Chen protested.

“You’re the head of security and very motivated. I’m certain you’ll manage. By the way, do keep Mr. Henley’s arrest quiet.”

The man’s expression tightened, and he gave a jerky nod. The door slammed shut behind him.

John rounded on his friend. “That was brilliant!”

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed. “I looked him up last night in preparation.”

So his friend had been doing more than just attempting to access the security system at _Brackenwood_.

“Hey now, what about me? I made the bloody paper disappear.” Lestrade set the account document back on the desk with a flourish.

“You were brilliant too.” John grinned. “How in the world did you do it?”

“Magic.” Lestrade held a coin between his thumb and forefinger. With a flick of his fingers, it disappeared. “Been practicing for my kids.”

“That’s amazing!”

“No, it isn’t. It’s in his sleeve.” Sherlock gestured at the inspector's right arm.

Lestrade smiled and tapped his nose. “A magician never reveals his secrets.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I appreciate every single comment. :-) Please leave me a note if you enjoyed this chapter!


	27. Chapter 27

Pale yellow light the color of elemental sulfur bled through the window from the lamp across the street. John sat in his chair dozing, coat across his lap, ready to leave at a moment’s notice.

Sherlock envied his friend’s simple, placid state of being. Entering his Mind Palace would allow him some relief, but he needed to remain alert. He made another circuit of the kitchen and living room, naming off alkali metals with every step.

Lithium. Sodium. Potassium. Rubidium. Caesium. Francium.

His fingers curled into his palms as he passed the coffee table, denying the desire to pick up his mobile or check his laptop again. Nothing had come through. He would have heard it.

Waiting. God how he hated waiting. It made him want to shoot the wall.

Lestrade had dropped them off at 221B late last night after Sherlock received a text from Mr. Chen indicating the false database was ready. John had insisted on returning home, saying it was better to wait there than at the station. What he’d really meant was that he wanted to take a bath, eat beans on toast, attempt to sleep, and watch crap telly.

Sherlock paused in the kitchen and added a third nicotine patch to his arm.

Questioning Neil’s colleagues and friends yesterday had resulted in another dead end. No, they didn’t believe he’d ever murder anyone or that he could be involved in anything illegal. Yes, they’d met Stacy. She was quite lovely, and wasn’t it a shame they weren’t together anymore? Rubbish, all of it.

What an utter waste of time. The three people worth interrogating, Neil’s parents and his ex-girlfriend, wouldn’t be available for two days. Stacy was taking care of her sick grandmother in Dublin, while Neil’s parents were busy securing the quickest flight out of Jamaica. By then, it would be far too late. Their killer would make contact before then.

Sherlock glanced at his watch. Half past eight. Almost 48 hours since Miss Walker had been taken. Three and a half hours until the close of their agreement. At least he couldn’t be expected to fulfill his end of the bargain if he couldn’t locate her.

A car’s engine rumbled as it turned the corner onto Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson’s tittering laugh carried up the stairs as she gossiped on the phone with Mrs. Turner. John’s steady breaths drew in and out. A slight whistle whined through his nose every three minutes and eleven seconds. Sherlock’s watch ticked and ticked and ticked. Everything was so tranquil, so mundane.

It was revolting. Dreadful. Intolerable.

He opened the fridge. His grip tightened on the handle. The inside had been scrubbed clean, everything removed. Even the spleen he’d hidden in the back was gone. Bloody Mrs. Hudson.

His mind scrabbled for a way to diffuse the frenetic energy simmering beneath his skin, but with no outlet or direction, there-

A chime sounded.

He froze and stared blankly into the interior of the fridge. Had he imagined it? He shut the door and walked to the edge of the kitchen, pausing on the threshold.

John craned his head around and frowned. “Was that-”

“Yes.” He strode over to the coffee table and scooped up his phone.

_Do you have it?_

A quick glance at the mobile number confirmed the killer was using an Internet texting service.  
  
 _That depends. Do you have her?_

"Should you be toying with him?" John asked, peering down at the screen beside him.

"I'm not toying with him. I need to verify she’s safe. The exchange is pointless otherwise."

Two minutes ticked by with no response.

John shook his head. "Well, I hope you haven't pissed him off."

His phone chimed again. There was an attachment.

It was a photo of Miss Walker. Still wrapped in plastic, though this time her skin wasn't the vibrant red from before, more like washed out porcelain. Her eyes were closed, face slack. Her parted lips had the barest shade of pink to them, a helpful indicator she wasn't dead. Today's newspaper lay across her chest.

“My god. He’s kept her sedated this whole time?” John asked.

“It appears so.”

John’s fists clenched. “That’s insane. The dehydration alone-” His friend's lips compressed and he cut himself off, unable or unwilling to say more.

Sherlock shook his head. “Don’t you understand? This is good news. It means he intends to follow through on the trade. He’s kept her unconscious, not just to keep her docile, but so there’s no threat of her identifying him.”

“Couldn’t he have just tied her up and put a bag over her head?”

He stared at him. “You watch too many films, John. Besides, do you think that would have really worked on her?”

“No, she’d have gotten free and either cracked him on the head or bit him.”

“And then he definitely would have wanted to shoot her.”

He typed a reply. _I have the account information._

_Come to the bandstand at Battersea Park. Use the Albert Gate entrance. If you involve the police, she dies._

_Agreed. How will we conduct the exchange?_

_You need only to follow my instructions._

"Well, we have our orders," John said.

Sherlock shrugged into his spare coat, thankful he didn't need to wear his father's ancient brown one any longer. His black Belstaff wouldn’t be ready to pick up from the dry cleaners for a few days. At least this charcoal grey one fit him and didn’t smell of dust. He slipped the plastic bag that held the account listing into the large inside pocket of his coat. "Ready?"

John nodded. "What about Lestrade?"

"We’ll call him on the way to the park."

Sherlock hailed a cab and gave the driver the address.

"No, his instructions were very specific. It's safest for Vivian if you just sit tight," John said into the phone.

Sherlock took it from him. "Lestrade."

  
The inspector sputtered. "Sherlock, you can't just go running off on your own. We've got an excellent hostage negotiator here. Let us help. You're risking more than just yourself."

Sherlock set his jaw. "I know what's at stake, hence the reason for my following his instructions. He's smart. He'll notice if anyone else is on site. If there's any hint of law enforcement involvement, she dies. I'm not willing to risk her life on the frankly abysmal undercover abilities of your officers. We're going in alone."

Lestrade sighed. “Alert me the second you find her."

“I will. While you’re waiting, you might as well make an attempt to track our killer’s IP address. He messaged me using an Internet texting service. I’ll forward it to you.”

Sherlock ended the call and handed the phone back to John.

"Do you think he’ll stay back?" John asked.

“He’d better. Miss Walker's life depends on it.”

The cabbie pulled up to the west side entrance to the park.

Sherlock paid him. “I’ll give you an extra twenty quid if you wait for us.”

The man tapped brown-stained fingertips against the steering wheel. “How long will you be?”

“Long enough for you to have the smoke you’re craving.”

The cabbie scratched at his neck. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll have me smoke, then drive up and down Albert Bridge Road with the clock runnin’. Me cab has got to be moving, else the boss’ll have a conniption. You flag me down at the gate when you’re ready and we’ll settle up then.”

“Deal,” Sherlock said. It saved them the difficulty of finding another cab, as the traffic on this end of the park was practically nonexistent at this time of night.

They left the car and approached the entrance.

“Won’t it be locked?” John asked.

“Doubtful. Our killer wouldn’t have bothered to point us in this direction otherwise.” Sherlock pushed at the heavy iron gate and it opened. He raised an eyebrow at his friend. “See?”

“Yes, I’m not bloody blind.”

They walked up the path towards the bandstand. Lamps interspersed between gnarled alder and weeping birch trees lit their way. Off in the distance, the silhouettes of the four towers of Battersea Power Station stretched towards the sky. A chill breeze swept across the ground scattering dried leaves, which crunched beneath their feet.

“Isn’t this place a bit public for handing over an unconscious woman?” John asked.

“He won’t have her here. In fact, I doubt he’ll be here either, as he’ll wish to protect his identity.”

John halted. “Then what in the bloody hell are we doing here?”

Sherlock kept moving towards their destination. “We’re following his instructions. He has a plan for the exchange, I’m sure.”

His friend scowled and began walking again. “Or he’s deliberately sent us to an isolated place where assassins for hire will kill us and then take the account information from your cold corpse.”  
“Don’t be ridiculous. Any assassins worth their salt would have just killed us in our flat already. They’re likely far too pricey for our killer anyhow. If he’s gone that route we’ll find third rate toughs waiting for us instead.”

“Oh good. I’ve always wanted my kneecaps smashed by a Neanderthal brandishing a club.”

“And your jewelry lifted.”

“I don’t have any jewelry.”

“What about the bracelet you’re wearing that Abigail gave you?”

“It’s not a bloody bracelet, it’s an armband commemorating my service in the army.”

“It’s made of metal-”

“And woven leather.”

“Woven? You mean braided. It’s ornamental and encircles the wrist or the arm. It doesn’t tell time. According to Merriam-Webster, that’s a bracelet.”

“Mr. Webster can sod off and so can you.”

“That doesn’t change the fact you’re wearing a bracelet.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

John huffed and fell silent.

Sherlock grinned. Not only had he gotten the last word, but he’d also managed to redirect John’s agitation regarding their situation. They passed a pond and a cricket pavilion before the bandstand came into view. The only light came from the moon and the stars and the glow of the city. Three steps up led to a concrete platform. The octagon canopy was topped by a spire. Naked red oak trees loomed behind the structure.

Nothing else disturbed the quiet. They were alone. Sherlock walked up the steps. Delicate metal filigree decorated each supporting post of the bandstand.

He pulled out his phone.  _We’re here._

_Starting from the inside of the bandstand, walk 50 paces south towards the trees. Find a red oak with three horizontal slash marks across its trunk._

Sherlock showed John the message.

His friend shook his head. “He’s just playing with us now.”

“Either way, I’m intrigued.” Sherlock headed towards the copse, silently counting his steps.

John lit their path with his torch. Sherlock halted when he reached fifty paces and waited for his friend to catch up, turning on his own torch. They spun around, casting beams of light onto the surrounding trees.

“There.” Sherlock's light illuminated the base of one large oak. Along with initials carved into its side, there were three long horizontal cuts in the trunk. The torchlight glinted off something metallic beside it.

John walked over to it. “It’s a bloody shovel, Sherlock. I am not digging my own grave. I refuse.”

He rolled his eyes and pulled out his mobile.

_What next?_

_Dig one meter down directly beneath the marks_.

“We’re only supposed to dig one meter. Too shallow for a grave, John.”

“I’m still not digging.”

“Fine.” Sherlock grabbed the shovel and cut into the earth. The soil was soft, as if this particular spot got turned over on a consistent basis. The end of the shovel scraped against metal and he scooped at the dirt around it. It exposed the open end of a large metal pipe. He blinked.

Something tugged at the back of his mind. “I need to go to my Mind Palace.”

“What? Now? It’s not exactly a good time to go popping off.”

Sherlock propped the shovel back against the tree. “I’ll only be a minute.”

“The last time you said that, you were out for three hours.”

“You invited everyone over for a party. What did you expect?”

“Fine. If you’re not back in two minutes, I’ll smack you with the shovel. How’s that?”

“Unnecessary. I won’t be going in very deeply. In fact, I would’ve been finished by now if you hadn’t decided to have a row.”

John folded his arms and shot him an impatient look.

Sherlock leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes, slipping into a simple breathing pattern. The rustle of leaves, the fresh scent of churned earth, and the kiss of the chill air faded, replaced by the library at _Brackenwood_. The colors here were more vibrant, the room younger, everything larger. Understandably so, as this had been the very first room he’d created in his Mind Palace.

This was where he’d begun, his genesis

A small fire flickered in the hearth, and the faint sound of a haunting piano melody filled the air. Le Gibet from Gaspard de la nuit by Ravel. His mother used to play whenever father disappeared on business trips.

He walked to the door and set his palm flat against it. The wood felt warm to the touch, and the faintest vibration thrummed against his hand, like a heartbeat.

It was a heartbeat. His own.

The palace was as alive as he was, a visual representation of his mind.

Sentient. Brilliant. Organic. Genius.

Sherlock fed it images and in return it gave him knowledge.

He ran a hand across the front of his Belstaff coat. It felt good to be wearing it again, even for this small moment in time. He reached into the inside front pocket and pulled out a photograph. The picture was of the metal pipe in the ground. He set it against the door and it sank into the wood, absorbed like amonium phosphate crystals in water.

The door opened, revealing the top of a spiral staircase. He took the stairs two at a time, descending two floors before taking a side door. He continued into a long hallway. The lights flickered as the corridor split off in three directions. They dimmed when he turned to the right. He paused, went left instead, and the lights brightened.  
“Are we going to play hot and cold, next?” he muttered.

A searing hot wind rushed down the hallway and ruffled his hair. Then a crunching, screeching sound rent the air. He looked over his shoulder. Sheets of ice now covered the carpeted floor behind him.

“Very funny.”

Essentially, he was talking to himself. Loads of people did that. It only became a problem when someone spoke back. So far, that hadn’t happened here. He walked its paths alone. The whole of it belonged to him, was him. And if he were to ever run into anyone else here, it would be time to seriously question his sanity.

Though John did that on a regular basis.

Sherlock continued down the hall and opened an ornate door at the end. A thick fog obscured his vision as he stepped across the threshold. The mist swirled about his body, leaving his face clammy and cold. Curling wisps settled to the floor and disappeared.

The carpet had been replaced by a worn wooden platform. A wrought iron roof arched impossibly high overhead. There was another platform across the way, a blurred wall behind it. Two sets of iron tracks laid across the bare ground in the gap between the platforms.

He knew where he was now. Euston Railway Station.

He’d been there numerous times, but the black and white tint to everything told him this was a much older version. A small, rectangular vintage looking red car sat on the tracks. It was the single spot of color anywhere.

He leapt off the platform.

The car appeared to shrink in size as he approached. It wasn’t made for people, though a child could fit inside. It was shaped more like a tube with wheels. There was a canvas bag beside it. Envelopes poked out the opening.

The railway tracks and car faded away, replaced by a long metal tube. Grass burst out of the ground before him and crept over it, leaving only the dark yawning maw. A half circle of young red oak trees stood before him and the tip of the pipe now protruded from the ground.

A set of old dueling pistols lay in the grass near his feet. He touched one, running a finger across the long smooth-bore barrel. Single shot flintlock, .58 caliber. The Duke of Wellington and the Earl of Winchilsea had met here to settle a matter of honor.

This was Battersea Fields. It became Battersea Park in 1858.

His ear itched. He scratched at it, and the scene before him dissolved, replaced by the library once again. He frowned, wondering what had caused him to be jarred away from the memory. About to exit his Mind Palace, his eye caught on a flash of green on the mantel. He walked over to it, stopped, and stared.

The mantel clock had been replaced by a glass display case. Nestled inside it sat a jagged chunk of tobernite. The radioactive mineral glowed, the heat of it eclipsing that of the fire. Sherlock hadn’t put it there. He reached out a hand-

He opened his eyes, squinting in the bright beam of John’s torch, then brought his fingers up to rub his stinging forehead. “Did you flick me?”

John’s mouth thinned. “Yes, I bloody well flicked you. It’s been five minutes and our killer is getting impatient.”

He handed him the phone.

_Have you finished?_

_Yes._

_Reach into the pipe and remove the canister. Place the account information inside it and set it back inside the tube. Text me when it’s ready._

He grinned. “Brilliant.”

John let out a harsh breath through his nose. “Please tell me you aren’t complimenting Vivian’s abductor.”

“I don’t mean him, though he is clever for utilizing a system that’s already in place.”

The torch bobbed. “What system?”

“This is a remnant of the London Pneumatic Despatch Company. Established in 1859. Tubes like this were used to transport mail and telegrams. A permanent line was eventually constructed between Euston Station and the North West District Post Office in 1863. However, the very first trial model was built here at Battersea Fields in 1861. After constructing a number of networks, the Post Office finally abandoned the system after parcels continued to get stuck in the tunnels.” He paused. “It appears they’ve been resurrected.”

John’s eyebrows stretched towards the sky. “Who would go to the trouble?”

His eyes narrowed. “I expect it was a group effort by the criminal underground. A restoration job such as this would take a number of people. I imagine they were quite motivated. Just think of the various applications. You could transport drugs, stolen goods, and evidence from crimes. The list goes on and on.”

“Yes, lovely." John shook his head. "We'd best mention this to Lestrade."

Sherlock reached into the pipe and grabbed hold of the waiting canister. He unscrewed the top and tucked the account information inside, then resealed it.

He sent a text to Mr. Chen. _Activate the database._

A reply came thirty seconds later. _Activated._

Sherlock slid the canister back into the pipe. “As soon as the suction starts and the canister disappears, start the timer on your mobile.”

“What? Why?”

“Just do it.”

“Alright.”

Sherlock sent out another text. _The canister is ready._

A heavy inhalation sounded, and the canister disappeared. “Now, John.”

His friend pushed a button on his phone. Three minutes passed. Then two more.

Sherlock's breath left a white trail in the chill air.

His phone chimed. “Stop the timer."

_A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Holmes._

An address followed.

Odd. He’d expected their killer to at least login to the database before providing them with Miss Walker’s location. How disappointing. Their adversary wasn’t as clever as he’d thought.  
Sherlock frowned. That didn’t bode particularly well for Miss Walker. He only hoped she remained unharmed. Unfortunately, idiots tended to do more damage than not. And she had already been damaged enough.

His sternum twinged, and he rubbed at the spot. Likely a lingering bruise from their brawl.

Sherlock dropped his hand. He couldn’t allow it to be anything more than that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday! If you enjoyed this chapter, please leave me a comment! :-) Your feedback is like the best chocolate ever.


	28. Chapter 28

The cabbie, as good as his word, pulled up to the curb. They slid inside, still catching their breath from their sprint back to the gate. 

“37 Wapping Wall and step on it,” Sherlock said. 

“You got it, mate.” 

The force of the acceleration pressed his back into the seat, and the car sped down the road. 

Sherlock smiled. He liked this cabbie. 

He turned to John. “How much time passed between the canister disappearing and the text I received?” 

John frowned and pulled out his phone. “Five minutes and thirty-seven seconds.” 

Sherlock did a quick calculation in his head. “Parcels in a pneumatic tube of that size were capable of achieving 96 kilometers an hour. Judging by the sound of the suction and the speed with which the canister was received, I’d say it’s been restored to its original function. The pipeline headed south, which means our killer is currently located within an 8.34 kilometer radius.” 

John blinked, clearly needing a moment to digest the information. “We’re going after Vivian, not the killer, Sherlock.” 

“I’m well aware of that. I intend to inform Lestrade. Someone will need to dig up the pipe schematics and determine where our canister went, likely a location where an old post office used to be. We may have time to catch up to him.” 

“Only after we make sure Vivian’s alright,” John said. 

He nodded and texted Lestrade the information along with the address they were headed to. 

_Don’t come until after we’ve verified Miss Walker’s safety._

_Understood._

The cab crossed over the Thames, and moonlight glinted off the rippling water. A feeling of unease welled up within him. He shook his head. “This was too easy.” 

John stared at him. “Too easy? What, were you wanting something more dramatic? Thugs to jump us? An explosion?” 

“I expected more from him. Except for the use of the pneumatic pipe system, the exchange was practically textbook. Boring.” 

“You know what? I’ll take boring any day when someone’s life is at stake. We want things to go to plan, Sherlock. That’s the whole point.” 

“This is why I prefer murders. Abductions are too restrictive.” 

John sighed but said nothing. 

He’d only spoken the truth. There was no room for improvisation during an abduction case. Everything had to be played by the book. Murder cases weren’t like that. The risks involved were for him and John alone. 

Dealing with live people made everything messy. He never wanted anyone else involved, certainly not an ill-tempered, damaged, red-haired woman in need of his help. The uneasiness grew. 

What if he couldn’t help her? 

He clamped down on the thought. Picked it apart. 

He was Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective. 

Failure wasn’t an option. 

The cabbie stopped in front of an abandoned construction site. 

Sherlock paid the man, and they exited the car. 

Raucous music poured out of a brightly lit pub on the other side of the street. The worn road separated the well-to-do buildings from the dilapidated structure on their side. 

“This is it?” John gaze at the crumbling brick monstrosity in front of them. 

The old Victorian building sprawled across the dirt lot, its multi-tiered rooftop a jumble of chimneys. The bricks alternated in stripes of faded red and terra cotta. One rectangular portion of the building jutted out to the side, a section of its arched ceiling open to the air. 

Broken bricks lay scattered about in piles along the ground. An orange bulldozer stood parked against one wall, while the sweeping neck of a crane hung low. Its line disappeared into the gaping rooftop. Black rubber tubes exited the lower windows and a hum of engines cut through the air, though none of the windows were lit. 

“Inviting, isn’t it?” Sherlock said.

Torches out, they wove their way through the detritus. Caution tape cut across the opening to the main door. Sherlock ducked beneath it and slipped inside, John at his heels. 

The reason for the rubber tubes became evident the second his shoe splashed into water. An old pipe had likely burst, flooding the whole area. 

The icy water dragged at the lower legs of his trousers as he slogged down the hall. The sounds of their splashing, the chugging of the water pumps, and the whine of the engines reverberated through the building. Wood paneling spotted with mold gave way to emerald tiles, and the corridor opened up to an elongated room. There was a large expanse of water, and nothing else. 

“Careful.” Sherlock waved his torch across the breadth of the rectangular space. “This public bathhouse is over one hundred years old. We’d best stay along the perimeter unless we’re looking to take a swim in the pool.” 

“Right.” John splashed alongside the wall. He put one hand against it, and using it as a guide, traversed to the other side. 

Sherlock followed. “You wouldn’t know it, but there’s an entire subterranean labyrinth beneath our feet, filled with machinery, piping, and filtration systems. Quite advanced for the time period.” 

“I just hope the floor holds.” John stepped through the arched doorway and into the next room. 

The place was a maze of steam rooms, changing areas, balconies, and stairs. 

Where was she? 

Sherlock double-checked the address. This was the place. With water covering everything, there was no discernible trail to follow, all evidence conveniently washed away. 

They slogged into a third pool room. This one was the largest by far, Olympic-sized, with spectator seating around the balconies above it. Moonlight shone in through the broken ceiling, and a small shadow danced upon the leaf-littered water. 

John stepped out from beneath the balcony and moved to the edge of the pool, torch raised high. 

“Sherlock.” John’s urgent whisper echoed off the walls. 

Sherlock followed the beam of the torch up past the second level to the highest point of the ceiling. 

It wasn’t the massive wrecking ball that had caught his friend’s attention, but the dark shape attached to the connecting chain, directly above it. The glint of red hair was unmistakable. 

_Vivian._

She hung six meters above the pool. Rope tied her to the supporting chain, and her feet rested atop the wrecking ball. If she were to fall, she’d hit the water at 40 kilometers an hour, enough to compress her spine, break bones, and damage her brain. And while the pool was larger than average, he doubted it was any deeper than the standard 2.74 meters. It would be like smashing into a concrete wall. 

Construction floodlights attached to two of the walls flickered on, sending blinding light across the room. 

That’s when he noticed the cameras mounted on opposite walls, pointed in their direction. 

An engine roared to life and additional lights turned on, this time along the upper neck of the crane. 

“Oh my god,” John breathed. 

A chime sounded. 

_You shouldn’t have tried to trick me, Mr. Holmes._

Sherlock’s breath caught.

_Wait. I can still get you the information you need._

_Too late._

The response sent a painful rush through his veins. 

The crane gave a groan above them, then the wrecking ball plummeted, carrying Vivian along with it. 

His last glimpse of her was a flutter of ginger hair before she followed the wrecking ball into the water. The ball shattered the bottom of the pool, driving clear through it into the subterranean chambers below. 

Water surged into the gap, and great cracks split across the tiled floor. Other gaps opened up in the corners at the far end. 

Sherlock shoved his phone into John’s hand. “Call Lestrade.” 

Shrugging out of his coat, he slipped his torch into his trouser pocket, then dove into the pool. 

The frigid water barely registered, blocked by adrenaline already released into his body the moment Vivian fell. Swimming wasn’t possible. The water dragged him towards the hole she’d disappeared into. It sucked him through and regurgitated him out the other side. 

Water pummeled at him, sending his body bouncing into sharp edges, off rough surfaces, and head over arse into what felt like a brick wall. His lungs blazed with the need for air. A loud rumble resounded, and the pressure of the water eased. He discovered which end was up and surged out of the water to suck in a much needed breath. 

Sherlock rolled to the side, hand smacking into, then grasping onto a pipe. The water miraculously drained away, going from waist height to calf height in a matter of seconds. It appeared the Victorian engineers had planned for the worst case scenario. It was fortunate the ground levels had been flooded and not here as well. 

He staggered to his feet and fumbled in his pocket for his torch. Not only was it still there, but it worked. He chuckled, and the low sound bounced back at him. 

He stopped short. Why was he laughing? 

Shock. 

He was in shock, his body likely injured though he couldn’t feel it at the moment. He wiped his wet hair out of his face, and his hand came away bloody. 

He blinked, his mind sluggish. 

Wasn’t he supposed to be doing something? 

The dark red of the blood on his hand reminded him of a different, richer shade of red. Not blood though. 

Hair. Her hair. 

Vivian. 

That’s why he was here. He had to find her. 

A wave of dizziness washed over him. He let out a breath and took a shuffling step forward, using the layered pipes which ran alongside the length of the wall to support him. An unsettling thought whispered through his head, telling him he’d likely not be any good to her, even if did find her. 

That part of him could sod off. 

It took him a few steps before he realized his left foot felt squishy. A sprain, or possibly a break. At least the adrenaline was taking care of the pain at the moment. 

Had Vivian fared as well as he had? Sherlock increased his pace, backtracking to the site where the wrecking ball had broken through. Rubble and broken tiles completely filled the hole.

He located the wrecking ball. There was no sign of her. The impact had torn her free from the ropes that had held her. He followed the trailing lengths of fibers. The underbelly of the bath house was as expansive as the entire first floor, but with all the machinery and pipes down here, she couldn’t have gone far. Something large and bulky had to have stopped her. Like a wall.

There. In the corner. 

A lump of cling film covered in muck. 

He stumbled over, knees giving out beside her. She lay on her side, facing away from him, the plastic in shredded strips around her. 

He touched her bare shoulder. It was cold. He dragged a hand up to her neck, uncaring that he left a streak of his own blood across her skin. 

He felt for a pulse. 

Nothing. 

Seconds ticked by. 

Still nothing. 

His breath caught and held. The pain in his sternum came back, though this time it felt like someone had impaled him with an ice pick.  

No. 

This was unacceptable. 

He gripped her shoulder, then shook her. “Vivian!” 

It came out an angry demand. 

After all this, how dare she die on him? 

Her body jerked, and she shuddered, convulsing. Water bubbled up from her mouth. He swiftly turned her head to the side, and she retched. Great gasps rattled through her as she heaved copious amounts of liquid out of her stomach and airway. 

Relief dragged his head back to clunk against the pipe behind him. 

He exhaled. She was alive. They both were.

For the moment. 

She groaned and rolled to her back. Green eyes peered up at him. Her pupils were blown. Drugs still lingered in her system then. 

She frowned. “You’re bleeding.” 

“Yes.” He could hardly believe she was functional enough to speak, let alone make blatantly obvious assertions. 

Her eyes flicked to the ceiling, along the pipes, then back to him. “This isn’t the bathroom.” 

“No.” Interesting. Apparently being sedated the past two days hadn’t done too much damage, at least none that was visible yet. “Can you recall anything since we last spoke in the library?” 

“No. It’s all a jumble.” She turned her head and was violently sick again. 

After the heaving subsided, she let out a pained whimper. “I feel bloody awful. Worse than the withdrawals.” 

“It’s a miracle you’re alive to feel anything at all. Can you sit up?” 

“I can try.” 

He braced his arm behind her and eased her back against the wall. Her fall through the pool floor and the subsequent tumble had done more than shred the plastic covering her. The lower half of her right arm hung at a distinctly wrong angle. A shard of bone pierced through the skin of her forearm. 

A compound fracture. She failed to notice the blood trickling from it. It ran down her hand and dripped off her fingertips. 

Her chest rose and fell in shaky breaths. The tattered blue slip threatened to rip even further, endangering what little dignity she had left. He unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it off, covering her with the wet material. 

Her eyes flew open. “Oh. Thank you.” 

He nodded. 

The ceiling above them creaked, and a few bricks broke loose and clattered to the floor near their feet. 

“We need to move.” He didn’t trust the structural integrity of the building enough to remain here until help arrived. 

He lifted her in his arms. She felt lighter than two days ago. The lack of food had taken a toll on her already slender frame. Tangled wet hair clung to his bare chest, and the warmth of her breath against his skin sent a disconcerting shiver through him. He made a less than graceful path through the maze of debris, ankle wobbling with every step. 

“How many times is this now?” she asked. 

“I haven’t kept count.” That was a lie. This was the seventh instance he’d carried her. 

“It’d be nice if I wasn’t injured every single time.” Her brow furrowed. “Where are we?” 

“A derelict Victorian bathhouse.”

“Oh.”

He halted at the end of a hallway. While he’d been correct in his assumption of an exit down this path, debris blocked it. Pipes, bricks, broken bits of iron. It would take more energy than either of them had to move it all. 

He backtracked a short way, turning into a room that had appeared less damaged than the rest. Open wood crates held rusted iron pipes and various spare parts. At least there was an open space on the floor where they could lean against the containers. 

He set her down as carefully as he could, then sat beside her. 

“John will have contacted Lestrade. We can expect help to arrive at some point." Sherlock removed his laces, then worked his shoe off his injured foot. Better than having to cut the leather due to swelling. The sock peeled away, revealing red, puffy tissue. 

“Your foot!” She scowled, face flushed. “What were you thinking, carrying me around with a broken ankle? Of all the-” 

Her head jerked up, and she stared at the open door, an intent look on her face. 

A moment later, a loud rumble swept down the hall and the whole building shuddered.

The rest of the ceiling had caved in, back where he’d originally found her. A puff of dust floated through the air. If everything hadn’t gotten a recent soak, the air quality would have been much worse.

He met her startled gaze. “If I hadn’t carried you, we’d both be dead right now. Besides, you’re not in any kind of state to be walking about.” 

She sighed and lifted a hand to rub at her temple. 

He moved to his knees and sorted through the box behind him, picking out a thin, short iron rod. He pulled the laces out of his other shoe and scooted around to her right side. 

“What are you doing?” she asked. 

He smirked. “I’m no John Watson, but I do believe I can manage to splint a broken arm.” 

“Broken arm?” Her alarmed gaze fixed on both of his. 

Shock made people even stupider than normal, which was saying something. “Not me. You.” 

Her chin dropped, and she gaped down at her bleeding arm. “Oh.” 

Sherlock had to give her credit. She was reacting admirably. Malnourished, dehydrated, injured, drugged, and damaged who knew where. Most people would have been raging lunatics by now, or in tears at the very least.

He braced the rod along the bottom of her arm. “Hold this here.” 

She did as requested. He tied a lace around each end of the rod, attaching it firmly to her arm, and effectively immobilizing it. 

She sucked in a sharp breath, face pinched. 

“Are you alright?” He hoped the nerve hadn’t been severed. 

“It’s not my arm. It’s my head,” she gritted out. “Everything is echoing back at me. Even my own words.” 

Sherlock went still. He’d thought the return of color to her face had meant her circulation was improving, an indication of health. 

He put a hand to her forehead.

Wrong. It hadn't been that at all. 

Her fever had returned with a vengeance and with it, the pressure on her brain. 

She was now caught in a downward spiral towards madness, pain, and death. 

Sod it all. 

He caught her chin in his hand. “Listen to me. Focus.” 

She blinked. “What?” The word came out dull and slow. 

“I need you to focus.” 

Another blink. “I can’t.” 

He dropped his hand. Anger flared. “You can, and you will. I won’t allow you to do otherwise.” 

She clutched at her head with her free hand and groaned. “You made a promise to me.” 

“I didn’t risk my life for you, only to help you kill yourself twenty minutes later.” He pointed to his watch, even though she couldn’t read it. “We have two hours until midnight, and the end of our agreement.” 

He left out the fact that the waterlogged device was now broken. 

“This will be your deletion room,” he said. “Now, fall into the breathing pattern we practiced.” 

“No. I’m done. I quit.” 

Her words slammed into him, sending frigid ice through his veins. A calm, dislocated feeling washed over him. 

He caught her wrist. “You misunderstand, Miss Walker. Until someone digs us out, you belong to me.” His grip tightened when she tried to pull away. “We made an agreement. If you choose not to cooperate, I assure you, I’ll make what little time you have left a living hell.” 

Pain spasmed across her face. “Bastard.” The word ripped out of her. 

He smiled, empty and cold. “You have no idea. Shall we begin?” 

Her eyes narrowed. “Go to hell.” Every last wretched millimeter of her screamed defiance. 

Sherlock let out a low chuckle. “Let’s go together.” 

He released her wrist and reached for a rusted, wheel handle attached to a pipe running along the wall behind him. He wrenched the wheel around and rusted metal ground upon rusted metal. A piercing, shrieking sound exploded into the small room. 

She screamed, and her agonized cry blended in with that of the metal. She tried to cover her ears, but her splinted arm wouldn’t allow the movement. Instead, the sharp edge of the iron rod cut the side of her cheek, and blood cascaded down her face.

He stopped. Harsh sobs shuddered through her. His expression remained impassive, his breathing calm, heart rate steady. Her pain couldn’t reach him now. Minutes ago, he’d locked away any shred of empathy and buried it deep inside him. Empathy couldn’t help her. 

Nothing but pain could save her now. 

And Sherlock was prepared to do whatever it took. 

The man couldn’t help her, but the monster… 

The monster had a fighting chance.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this chapter, please leave a comment. I'd love to hear from you! :-)


	29. Chapter 29

Sherlock knew she would have vomited if there’d been anything at all in her stomach. 

He’d cranked the rusted wheel two more times.

Miss Walker's harsh sobs had long since subsided, though tears still streamed down her anguished face. 

“Do you want the pain to stop?” 

Her eyes lifted to meet his, and he wasn’t the least bit surprised to find a hint of madness in them. They likely matched his own. 

She stared straight through him, her gaze wide and unseeing. Blood dribbled down her chin. She’d bitten clear through her lip during the last episode. 

He grasped her wrist and placed her limp, clammy hand flat against his bare abdomen. “Breathe, then delete the memory of the screeching metal. Destroy it before it consumes you.” 

Sherlock took in a deep breath, allowing his stomach to expand as a reminder for her. Her pupils dilated and her hand spasmed. Fingers clawed into his abdominal muscles, her nails cutting into his flesh. 

He let her, welcomed the stinging pain, though by now he was so cold inside even this sensation felt distant and remote.

His lack of reaction appeared to calm her and awareness entered her gaze. 

“How?” she croaked out, her voice hoarse from screaming. 

“Embrace the memory, then eradicate it, using a visualization method as an aid.” 

“How do you do it?” 

He felt a drop of blood from where she’d cut him run past his navel. “I envision my unwanted memory as an old strip of film. I either expose it to a bright light or burn it. If that fails to work, I reduce it down to its molecular components and annihilate it bit by bit using hydrochloric acid. Tedious, but effective.” 

“How will I know if I’ve deleted it?” 

“You’ll know. It’ll feel like a heavy burden beyond measure taken away.” 

She licked her lips and closed her eyes, her hand now relaxed against him. She sucked in air and let it out, matching him breath for breath. 

Good. Now that he’d brought her past the breaking point, she was finally trying. There was nothing quite as motivating as excruciating pain. He should have gone that route from the beginning and saved them both the trouble. 

John wouldn’t have allowed it though, too much the sentimental doctor to inflict terrible hurt to heal. 

It was fortunate for Miss Walker he had no such compunction. 

Better still that John wasn’t here. Sherlock would have had to hurt him too, or he would have surely interfered.

Her closed eyes darted back and forth. A long moment passed.

She frowned. “I think I did it.” 

Unlikely. It had taken him a great deal of effort to design his own deletion method, and he’d been in far better health than her. 

“Open your eyes.” 

She complied. 

He reached for the wheel, and before his fingers even brushed it, she flinched. 

Sherlock shook his head. “If you had truly deleted the memory, you wouldn’t have reacted in fear.” 

It would be exactly like the first time he’d touched it. She’d be wary, but unsuspecting of his true goal. 

“Try again.” 

She did. Five more times. 

And failed every one. 

When her eyes threatened to roll back into her head, he turned the handle again, sending the screeching metal into her brain and forcing her back to consciousness. 

Exhaustion left her shaking. She’d stopped sweating now, her body hanging onto any remaining fluids it could. Capillaries burst in her eyes, spidering red tendrils across the white. 

“I hate you,” she whispered, her voice raw and broken. 

“I know.” 

Sherlock wondered if he should feel bothered by her words, if he’d despise himself too, when this was all over. Perhaps he’d keep the scraps of his humanity locked away, stored deep inside him permanently. Perfect ice radiated out from his sternum, channeling soothing numbness through his veins. The simplicity of the cold clarity of this state was seductive. Why be anything else? 

“Try again.” 

She lay half-crumpled against the side of the crate, could barely lift her head to speak. “I’ve tried blowing it up, suffocating it, drowning it beneath other sounds, even visualized murdering you. Nothing has worked.” 

“Try again. Visualize the most destructive force you can imagine.” 

“You mean, besides you?” 

His hand tightened on the wheel, and he gave it a quarter turn. The squeal of the metal left her shuddering. 

“Stop boring me and think.” 

Her eyes fell shut, and she steadied her breathing, left hand still draped across his stomach. 

Time passed, measured by the drip, drip, drip of a leaking pipe. 

Her entire body went taut at one thousand and eighty-one drips. A long sigh left her mouth at two thousand and fifty-nine. Her eyes finally fluttered open at three thousand and two. 

She stared at him. 

Sherlock set his hand on the wheel. 

She frowned and tilted her head to the side. 

“What are you thinking?” He let his hand drop, then reached for it again.

Same reaction. Just confusion on her face. No fear.

“I have the oddest sense of déjà vu.”

“Go on.” 

She licked at her bloodied lip. “You’ve been hurting me. I can feel the pain of it in my bones. I think you’ve been using the handle to do it, but the connecting thought is like a vapor, a fading shadow in my head.” 

His mouth curved, though he only experienced a distant satisfaction. “Congratulations. You’ve successfully deleted a painful sound from your memory.” 

Her breath caught. “I did?” 

“Yes. Déjà vu is the main side effect of deletion.” He’d purposefully withheld the information from her in order to gauge her success. “Tell me. How did you do it?” 

“I walked away.” 

That didn’t make sense. “What do you mean?” 

“I envisioned a long corridor out of here, and I ran down it until I reached the library. When I turned around and came back, there was nothing left in the room but a crate full of dust.” 

It hit him then, why her method had worked. 

He'd told her to use the most destructive force she could imagine.

_She walked away._

Her parents had died when she was little more than a teenager. Her brother was also dead, though Sherlock didn’t know how or when. She had no family to speak of. 

Miss Walker had left the memory the way everyone she’d ever loved had left her.

Loneliness.

No memory could withstand that type of destructive force. 

He’d been so focused on real-world, scientifically based methods of destruction he’d completely disregarded the catastrophic power of emotion. The mechanism was decidedly primitive, but nonetheless effective. 

Her eyelids drooped. 

“We’re not finished.” 

“What?” 

“You have more deleting to do. Center yourself, locate that which needs to be removed, and utilize your deletion method. But be careful not to eradicate anything but the sounds troubling you or you’ll find gaping holes in your memories. I’ll tell you when to stop.” 

She let out a half-laugh, half-sob. “Alright.” She rested her head back against the crate and exhaled, slipping into the familiar pattern. 

Now that she’d developed a unique deletion method of her own, the process would become quicker with practice. She had a large backlog of memories to destroy. It would take time. Thankfully, she didn’t need to complete it all right now, only enough to relieve the pressure on her brain. 

The pipe dripped. Miss Walker deleted. Sherlock kept watch. 

The feverish red of her skin faded first, and the blood staining her grew much more noticeable. Her shoulders lowered and the taut muscles of her thighs and calves relaxed. Finally, the lines of strain around her eyes and mouth eased. 

“That’s enough, Miss Walker. Sleep.” 

A soft sigh left her mouth, and she transitioned into slumber in the way that only the truly exhausted could. 

Six breaths later, her eyes darted back and forth beneath her eyelids. 

REM sleep. Another success. 

Sherlock frowned. Where was the satisfactory glow of meeting his objective? 

There was nothing left but icy emptiness inside his chest. 

Apparently, along with his shreds of empathy, he’d locked away his entire capacity for experiencing emotions of any kind. He no longer felt frustration over the idiocy of humanity. Yet, neither did he experience the smug enjoyment of having a superior mind. His annoying concern for the welfare of others had also disappeared, but so had the thrill of the chase. 

The world had lost its luster. Where there had once been color, there was now only a monotonous grey. 

He was truly an island now. 

Nothing could touch him. 

Miss Walker's hand twitched across his stomach. 

There was blood, his blood, beneath her fingernails and five half-moon cuts on his skin where she’d clawed into him.

Would she do it again? He couldn’t find it in himself to care. 

She slept, her breathing even, her head resting on the edge of the crate. 

Her hand moved for a third time, but instead of digging into him, her palm slid across his abdomen, fingers splayed out in a caress. 

Sherlock sucked in a breath. 

He caught her hand, and her fingers wrapped around his. 

He went still. 

The box he’d locked away deep inside the recesses of his mind, exploded. 

The ice in his chest shattered. 

First came the pain in his head, the throbbing of his ankle, and the ache of bruises over his entire body. 

Next came bone-crushing relief. She was alive and likely to remain that way. 

Fierce pride. He’d saved her life. Not just her body, but her mind. His doing, no one else’s. 

His gaze took in the blood-splattered woman beside him. 

Gut-wrenching horror. 

His mind replayed in gruesome, perfect detail how he’d tortured her, pushed her past the breaking point time and time again. 

Not only had he threatened her, but he’d followed through in brutal disregard for her right to choose. He’d forced her to comply, bent her implacable will through cruelty and pain. 

The curling warmth of her touch burned his skin. 

Sherlock shoved her hand away and staggered to his feet. He made it two steps out the door before he fell to his knees and retched. Nothing came up but stomach bile. 

One emotion was missing within the turmoil inside him. 

Regret. 

His stomach heaved again. 

He wasn’t sorry for what he’d done. He’d do it again if he had to. His mind shied away from questioning why he’d go to such lengths to save her. 

All he knew was that, with her, the ends justified the means. 

He didn’t know what kind of man that made him, if he even was a man at all. 

His heart beat out a stuttering rhythm. 

It was clear now. He was damaged. Broken. Defective. 

Sherlock gagged, then pressed his flushed face against the cool brick wall, uncaring of its rough surface. 

At least she was too deeply asleep to witness him falling apart.

“Here.” 

His stomach dropped.

He opened his eyes to a scrap of blue silk beneath his nose. Somehow she’d managed to drag herself out of the room to his side. His shirt still mostly covered her, but she’d ripped off a piece of her slip and now offered it to him. 

He took it, wiped his mouth and chin, then shoved it into his trouser pocket, much like his father used to do with his handkerchief. 

She watched him, face pinched. “Are you alright?” 

He shut his eyes, unable to stomach her concern. “Stop it.” 

“Stop what?” Confusion colored her tone. 

“Being. Kind.” He bit the words out. 

A sigh. “So you’re human after all.” 

He let out a mirthless laugh and lifted his head. “You still think I’m human after what happened in that room?” 

She shook her head. “You’re human because you’re so full of guilt, you’re vomiting your guts out in the hall.” 

“You’re mistaken. I’m not guilty. I’m glad.” 

She blinked. “You’re glad?” 

“Yes.” He tensed, certain she’d draw back in disgust any moment now. 

“Do you normally vomit when you’re glad?” 

The side of her face and mouth was too encrusted with blood for him to tell, but he could have sworn she was smirking. Was she mocking him? 

Outrage blazed within him. “Don’t you understand? I’m not sorry. There won’t be any apology this time.” 

Her left shoulder lifted in a half-shrug. “Well, I hope you’re not expecting me to thank you. Because there’s no way in hell that’s happening.” 

Sherlock stared at her. 

Miss Walker shifted her right arm and fresh blood welled up from the compound fracture. “If it makes you feel any better, I’d love to smack you across the face with this makeshift splint, but I'm in far too much pain at the moment.” She paused. “I suppose we’ll have to save that for another time.” 

Oddly enough, that did make him feel the tiniest bit better. He shook his head. “You’re mad.” 

This time, a definite smile tugged at her bloodied mouth. “So are you.” 

He huffed out a breath. “I’m pleased we understand one another.” 

Silence fell between them.

He wanted to move away from his puddle of sick, but he had no desire to revisit the room where he’d tortured her. 

Her head shot up, and she stared down the hall. 

Sherlock followed her gaze but couldn’t see or hear anything. “What is it?” 

“I hear people. Footsteps and voices.” Relief filled her voice, and she sagged against him, her left shoulder resting against his. 

He leaned towards her, but only to counterbalance her weight and nothing more. 

They remained like that until the medics arrived. 

 *******  

John halted as the radio on Lestrade’s belt crackled. “I repeat, Red Team has found Mr. Holmes and Miss Walker. We’re bringing them out.” 

John's heart pounded in his chest, his torch beam bouncing off the broken walls. They’d been searching through the debris for hours. 

Lestrade depressed a button. “Myers. Are they alive?” 

They both stared at the radio, frozen. More crackling. “Yes, sir. Injured, but alive.” 

John let out a breath. 

Lestrade clapped him on the back. “I told you. Sherlock’s too much of an arsehole to die a hero’s death.” 

Relief shifted to anger. “I’m going to kill him, resuscitate him, and then kill him again.” 

“Sounds good to me.” 

“Would that be considered a double murder?” 

“I reckon so.” Lestrade grinned. “Invite me over before you kill him, yeah? Better yet, let me have a go.” 

John pretended to think it over. “Alright. That sounds fair. Mrs. Hudson can make tea afterwards.” 

Lestrade’s bark of laughter echoed off the metal pipes and broken brickwork. 

They headed back towards the surface. It had taken hours for the tons of rubble to be moved to allow passage into the labyrinth below. John had been certain Sherlock and Vivian had either drowned or been crushed beneath the weight of the rocks. 

He’d never been happier to be wrong. 

Now, he only needed to verify their condition. Not being dead didn’t necessarily mean either of them weren’t still in danger. 

John and Lestrade walked out into the construction yard and into utter chaos. 

Two green and yellow ambulances were parked out front. One’s obnoxious siren wailed, its back doors wide open. Medics dressed in orange were trying to shove a gurney into the back, but a furious, shirtless, Sherlock Holmes blocked their way. He was crouched protectively over one end of the gurney and yelling at the three men. 

One very foolish man grabbed Sherlock’s arm and tried to drag him away. 

Big mistake. 

John imagined he heard the crack of the man’s face coming into contact with Sherlock’s fist. The medic collapsed to the ground, out cold. 

“Oh lovely,” Lestrade muttered, stepping forward. 

A pained cry cut through the siren and noise. 

Vivian. 

John shoved his way into the violent tug of war. Sherlock had his hands clamped over Vivian’s ears. Her face was covered in blood. Her back arched off the gurney and another scream left her mouth. 

“What the hell is going on?” John asked. 

Sherlock’s head swung around to face him. “The siren. Turn off the bloody siren.” 

John ran to the vehicle door, opened it, and turned the engine off. The siren continued. 

Bloody hell. 

Panicked, he flipped all the switches he could find. 

The blaring sound fell silent. 

Thank god. 

John returned to the back of the ambulance. Lestrade knelt beside the downed medic who was now sitting up and pinching closed his bleeding nose. Perhaps the inspector was convincing the man not to press charges. 

John caught sight of one wild-eyed medic. Unnoticed by Sherlock, the man had eased out a syringe, and readied it to jab it into Vivian’s exposed calf. Her body still trembled in the aftermath of the noise. 

John lunged forward and twisted the man’s wrist until he dropped the needle. He rounded on him. “Are you mad? Have you even questioned the patient to determine whether it’s safe to give her whatever you have there?” 

The man scowled. “It’s a simple sedative to stop her combative behavior. And who do you think you are to question me?”

“I’m her bloody doctor, that’s who. No sedatives. She’s been dosed with ketamine for two days.” If all the medics here were like this, John understood now why Sherlock had punched the other one.  

“She needs to go to hospital.” The medic blocked John’s attempt to approach the gurney. 

He felt his blood pressure rise. “Let me examine my patient first. You can ruddy-well take her to hospital in a moment.” 

Lestrade moved to stand beside him. “This is Doctor John Watson. I suggest you do as he says, mate.” 

The obnoxious medic moved aside, grumbling about upstart doctors and dirty coppers. 

Sherlock still stood at the head of the gurney. His hands no longer covered Vivian’s ears, instead resting flat against the mat on either side of her head. He gazed down at her, an intent expression on his face. 

Vivian's eyes opened. 

“Better?” Sherlock asked. 

“Yes,” she sighed. 

His friend’s tense shoulders eased. “Good.”  

John moved to stand beside Sherlock, though it felt rather like he was interrupting. 

“Oh hullo.” Vivian's gaze shifted to him. “I can delete stuff now.”

"Can you indeed?" 

Sherlock nodded. “We had some time on our hands.” 

More relief hummed through him. He no longer had to worry about her brain overheating. “That’s fantastic.” 

The condition of her body was most decidedly not. Half her face was a dried mask of blood. His eyes zeroed in on the makeshift splint and the piece of bone sticking out the top of her forearm. It had to be one of the worst compound fractures he’d ever seen. 

“Did they give you anything for the pain?” he asked. Most people would have been writhing in agony by now. 

She nodded. “Only enough to take the edge off.” 

“Not to worry. It was a small dose and the medic made sure it didn’t interact with the ketamine left in her system. They also started an IV for fluids,” Sherlock said. 

John eyed the sullen-faced orange jacketed trio off to their left. “Which medic did that?” 

His friend nodded at a different group dressed in red, watching from a short distance. “They’re the ones who found us. They’re much better than those incompetent fools, but apparently the most senior team calls the shots.” 

He spared a clinical glance for Sherlock. Bruises darkened the pale skin of his back and side. One foot was wrapped in a bandage. Injured ankle. 

“Both of you need to go to hospital.” 

Vivian lifted her head and craned it back and forth, eyes darting about. Her free hand clenched on the orange blanket draped over her. “I smell fish and chips.”  

Sherlock’s mouth curved. “It’s the pub across the street. Late night special, I expect.” 

Vivian’s face lit up like she’d just won the lottery. 

The obnoxious medic tossed his cigarette on the ground and came over to them. “Time’s up. Off you pop.” 

The man grabbed hold of the side of the gurney to guide it towards the ambulance. Vivian caught the front of the man's orange shirt and yanked him forward until the two were nose to nose. She lifted her right arm and brought the sharp metal edge of her splint against the side of his neck. 

“I’m going over to that pub to eat myself sick on fish and chips. Neither you nor anyone else is going to stop me. I’ll drag myself over your still-bleeding corpse if I have to.” 

“Bloody hell,” Lestrade breathed. 

John winced. 

Sherlock watched the scene unfold, a pleased glint in his eyes. 

Vivian gave the man’s shirt one more tug, then let him go.

He stumbled backwards. “You’re all psychotic, the whole lot of you.” He spat on the ground. "You can keep the gurney, you stupid cow.” 

“You’re too kind,” Vivian said, a mocking smile on her face. 

With that, the obnoxious medic and his colleagues stomped to the ambulance and drove away. 

A woman in a red medic uniform approached. 

Vivian tensed. “Not you, too, Alison.” 

The medic raised her hands, palms up. “No, no. Tom’s a jackass. I just wanted you to know my mates and I are feeling a bit peckish. We don’t mind taking our break at the pub and heading to hospital afterwards. We could take you then, if you’d like.” 

“That would be brilliant.” Vivian’s mouth eased into a genuine smile. 

“If I might make a suggestion?” Alison asked. 

"What?" 

Alison's gaze flicked to Sherlock and back to Vivian. “You two might want to get cleaned up first. You don’t want to scare off the patrons.” 

Vivian looked down at her bloody arm. “Oh. Right.” 

Alison waved a hand at her team and one of them came over with a box of anti-bacterial wipes. “These should do the trick.” 

Sherlock cleaned up while the medic helped Vivian as best she could. 

John handed Sherlock his coat and phone. “We’ll talk about your moronic choice to dive into the pool later. Don’t think you’re getting out of it.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You know I’ll just delete the conversation afterwards.” 

Alison surveyed Vivian with pursed lips. “We might just have to sit in a really dark corner.” 

“I don’t care, as long as I get my fish and chips.” 

The medic's mouth twitched. "You've really got an appetite, don’t you?"

“She hasn’t eaten in over a week,” Sherlock said. 

Alison looked horrified. “That's awful. Let's get you some food.” 

She pushed the gurney to the edge of the curb and one of her team members eased the other side down. 

John and Lestrade followed after the odd little group. 

Sherlock limped next to the gurney, one hand holding onto the side rail. 

Vivian craned her head around to look up at him. “You’re not going to tell me I can’t eat, are you?” 

John braced himself for more violence. Vivian would surely make herself sick eating greasy food after such a long fast, but he wasn't about to stop her.

Sherlock shook his head. “I’d prefer not have my throat sliced open. You can eat as much as you want.” He paused. “In fact, I think I’ll join you.” 

John and Lestrade froze in the middle of the street. 

“Did he just say he’s going to eat?” Lestrade asked, scandalized. 

“That’s what I heard.” John felt as gobsmacked as the inspector looked. 

They watched as Sherlock held the door open so the two medics could assist Vivian to a table. They'd parked the gurney along the outer wall. 

Sherlock disappeared into the pub, leaving the two of them outside. 

Lestrade lifted a hand in protest. “How can he be eating? The case isn’t even finished yet. We've still got a killer on the loose.” 

Realization dawned. Oh. 

True, the Rebecca Frost case was still ongoing. But the Vivian Walker case, that one was finished. 

It was the one Sherlock had been starving himself for, risked his life for. 

Two cases. 

One death. 

One life. 

To Sherlock Holmes, Vivian Walker had mattered the most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please take a moment and leave a review! :-)


	30. Chapter 30

Two days later they were back at Scotland Yard. 

Lestrade had been kind enough to give Sherlock and Vivian time to recover before requesting their official statements. 

There still hadn’t been any word from Mycroft, though Sherlock had authorized a specialized clean-up crew to take the bloodstains out of the carpets at  _Brackenwood_. At least the sofa had made it through the week unscathed. 

Doctor Reed’s surgery had been successful, and he was now on the road to recovery. Unfortunately, he couldn’t recall anything useful from the altercation at the house, save that the attacker had worn a mask covering his entire head and never spoke a single word. 

Neil Henley’s parents had come in for questioning and had left shocked and distraught over their son’s confession of murder. While John didn’t particularly mind that Neil was behind bars, the man was lying after all, it irked him that the real culprit was still free. 

Mr. Chen had been especially upset to find out that Neil’s laptop hadn’t been recovered yet. 

John hoped Sherlock would be able to solve the case before the media caught wind of it. An accidental death, two attempted murders, and an abduction. It was a journalist’s dream come true and Henry Giles’ worst nightmare. The old butler was counting on them to keep things quiet. 

Vivian left Lestrade’s office and gingerly sat beside him in the waiting area. 

“Sore?” John asked. 

“Very." She grimaced as she eased back against the chair. A thick cast covered her right arm. “I think my bruises have bruises.”

He winced. “Sherlock’s been taking Paracetamol every four hours. He even had a bath yesterday, but don’t tell anyone. You’ll ruin his formidable reputation.” 

That startled a laugh out of her. She eyed Sherlock through the glass wall of the inspector’s office where he and Lestrade still sat talking. Her eyes crinkled in amusement. “A real bath with scented bubbles?”

John shook his head. “Sherlock came out of the bathroom with his dressing robe on and his hair damp. When I walked inside, the shower curtain was dry, but the inside of the tub was wet. Beside it sat a box of Epsom salts.” 

She poked his arm. “Look at you, Doctor Watson. You’re a regular detective.” 

John affected an arrogant demeanor. “I’ll have you know, I’m actually the one who does all the deducing. Sherlock just follows me around.” 

“I see,” she said, straight-faced. “So, he’s just there to stalk about looking all brooding and mysterious then.” 

John grinned. “Pretty much.” 

She laughed and shook her head. 

He bumped his foot against the black duffel bag beside her chair. “You’re taking a trip somewhere.” 

“My temporary leave of absence from work to handle the affairs at  _Aria_  is over. I’m off to work in France for a while.” 

“Sounds lovely. Did Giles pack for you again?” 

A flush spread across her cheeks. 

His eyes widened. “You let him?” The old butler must have been delighted. 

She turned in her seat to face him, shoulders hunched. “You better not tell anyone.” 

Of course, by anyone, she meant a certain detective. He smiled. “Your secret is safe with me.” 

“What secret?” Sherlock asked, striding over. His inquisitive gaze darted back and forth between them. 

Lestrade stood beside him, eyes alight with interest. 

Vivian sent John a beseeching look. 

He folded his arms and stared up at his two friends. “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a secret then, would it?” 

“Fine.” Sherlock pulled out his mobile and fiddled with it. 

His friend’s nonchalant behavior might fool other people, but John knew that not knowing the secret was currently eating away at Sherlock’s soul. The man wouldn’t be able to let it go. John was going to have so much fun with this over the next month. 

He smiled and gave Vivian’s hand a squeeze. “Thank you.” 

Her brow furrowed. “You’re welcome?” 

“Don’t you need to return Abigail’s call regarding your date tonight?” Sherlock asked, slipping his phone back into his pocket. 

John frowned. There was the slightest edge to his friend's tone. He stood. “I’ll call her in a minute. We’ve got to see Vivian off.”

Vivian rose to her feet. “I can easily flag down a cab on my own.” 

John picked up her bag before she could protest. “We’re walking you out. Aren’t we, Sherlock?” 

His friend shrugged. “We’re leaving anyway.” 

Lestrade chuckled. “Ah, true chivalry.” He gave Vivian a wink. “Come back anytime.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, because everyone wants to visit the police station when they’re in the city.” 

John snickered. “You would.” 

She smiled at the inspector. “It was nice meeting you, Greg.” 

Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible under his breath. “Are we going or not?” 

Just then, a tall, blonde woman walked out of an office, followed by Sally Donovan. 

John remembered her from the photo at the flat. It was Stacy, Neil’s ex-girlfriend. Her high heels clicked across the linoleum. 

Sally shook her hand. “Thank you so much for your cooperation, Miss Dobson.” 

The woman looked like she’d been crying. “I’m just so sorry about Ms. Frost. She was a lovely woman.” 

Vivian went rigid beside him. 

“Are you alright?” 

She ignored him, her gaze zeroed in on the well-dressed woman.

Vivian strode across the room, her attention so focused, people had to move out of her way, or risk being plowed down. 

She stopped an arm's length away from Stacy. “It was you.” 

The low, accusing tone of her voice sent a hush of silence across the room. Officers, employees, and visitors alike stopped what they were doing and turned to watch. 

The blonde woman glanced at Vivian and frowned. “Sorry?” 

“You should be. I remember now. You’re the one who called me at  _Aria_  about the missing notebook.” 

Stacy shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Yes, you do. You killed Rebecca Frost, assaulted Doctor Reed. You kidnapped me and tied me to a bloody wrecking ball.” 

Stacy touched Donovan’s arm, a concerned look on her face. “Sergeant, I think this woman is confused.” 

Vivian’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, you’re good, but you made one tiny mistake. I recall everything I hear, whether I’m awake or asleep. And your voice is burned into my brain.” 

Stacy scoffed. “I’ve never heard anything more ridiculous in my life. Clearly, you’re mistaken.” 

Vivian took a step forward, her free hand clenched into a fist. “Tell me. Who is Sundrian?” 

All the color drained from Stacy’s face. She twisted around and yanked the gun out of a nearby officer’s belt. 

Before she had a chance to fully raise it, Vivian slammed her cast down on Stacy’s forearm. 

A crack rent the air. 

Stacy let out a high keening shriek, and the gun clattered to the floor. 

Vivian swung her cast a second time and back-armed the woman in the face.  

The scream cut off. 

Stacy hit the floor. Blood spread across her face, her nose and mouth a shredded mess. 

“Bloody hell,” John said. 

Vivian frowned at the gaping officers. “Well? Aren’t you going to cuff her?” 

Her indignant tone sparked everyone back into action. The officer who’d lost his gun scrambled to pick it up. Donovan knelt down beside the unconscious woman and cuffed her. 

Sherlock swept over and removed one of Stacy’s high heels. After glancing inside it, he tossed it to Lestrade, who fumbled to catch it. “It’s a size ten. That's a nine in men's.” 

Sherlock grinned over at him. “Case solved, John.” 

He shook his head. “We still don’t know why she did it.” 

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. “Boring.” 

Vivian glared down at Stacy. John reckoned she would have kicked the woman in the ribs a few times if she thought she could get away with it. 

“Your cast has blood on it,” Sherlock said. “I don’t expect it’s yours though.” 

Her smile had a distinctly feral edge to it. “It’s not. Though I think I might have cracked my cast.” 

"I can help you fix it," John said. 

Two officers hauled Miss Dobson away. 

Lestrade approached, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, that was a bit embarrassing. You reacted faster than my own men, Miss Walker.” 

“Yes, I’ve found she’s full of surprises,” Sherlock said, eyes narrowed. 

Vivian shrugged. “It’s amazing what two nights of sleep can do for a person.” 

“And five years of kick boxing classes,” John added. 

She gave him an appreciative smile. “Exactly. Besides, I really, really wanted to punch her.” 

*** 

A team of officers picked through Stacy’s car and found the account listing. They also discovered a Sig Sauer P266, the same caliber weapon used to harm Doctor Reed. The laptop was still missing. 

As it turned out, Stacy Dobson wasn’t Stacy Dobson at all, but Renee Hurley. Her fingerprints had pinged in the database. She’d been picked up once, over twenty years ago for shoplifting. She and her older brother, Adam, had lived with their grandmother in the minuscule English town of Fordwich. It was all the information they had on her. 

“It’s as if someone wiped her completely from the system.” Lestrade shook his head. 

If the little town’s records office hadn’t recently gone digital, the aged set of fingerprints never would have seen the light of day. No one would have ever known the truth. 

Sherlock sat forward. “Obviously someone with significant means helped her create a new identity.” 

“But why?” John asked. 

Lestrade looked up from the report. "Perhaps she wanted to start over. Her brother was medically discharged from the Royal Marines two years ago. Served three tours in Iraq. Injured in the line of duty. Six months after his return, he took his own life. Drug overdose. It says in the news clipping that his only sibling discovered his body.” 

John swallowed. That could have just easily been his story. The transition back into civilian life had almost destroyed him. His sharp, hardened edges refused to fuse back into place with the rest of society. He’d left a doctor, came back a soldier, the two opposing callings somehow now melded together inside him. 

He’d missed the closely knit brotherhood of his unit, had desired to continue to serve his country. Instead, he’d been forced to leave, deemed no longer fit for duty. He'd been set adrift with no direction, his meager pension from the government not nearly enough to live on. John wasn't proud of it, but a night or two, when he felt the walls of his tiny flat closing in, he'd set his Sig on his knee and contemplated doing what Adam had done. 

Vivian spoke up. “Instead of starting over, she sought revenge, someone to blame.” 

Lestrade nodded. “At least, that’s how things ended up. We believe her main target was Rupert Barnes, the head of General Finance. He spearheaded the reduction in military spending. He’s responsible for the cuts in training, manpower, and airlift support. When Adam was injured, it took three days before med-evac arrived."

“So, she intended to exact her vengeance by emptying the pockets of the members of the MOD,” Sherlock said. “It’s always about money.” 

John cocked his head to the side. “Maybe she wanted the military funding restored.” 

“Oh yes, her violent behavior definitely points to that noble goal. Lobbying for change is way too much trouble. Murder and blackmail, now that’s the ticket.” 

John didn’t care what Sherlock thought. He didn’t believe Renee had started out with violence in mind. Killing Rebecca Frost had clearly been an accident. The rest of it had come from a desperate woman intent on avenging her brother’s death. 

“How did she figure out the database Mr. Chen set up was false?” he asked. 

“Either Mr. Chen did a poor job, which is unlikely, or Renee already had one of the member’s financial statements on hand for comparison,” Sherlock said. 

Donovan knocked on the door and popped her head in. “Guess what? Neil Henley wants to chat.” 

Lestrade slapped his palm down on his desk. “I knew showing him proof of Stacy’s true identity would make him open up. There’s nothing quite like finding out your girlfriend isn’t who she says she is.” 

Donovan’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “Yes, well, he insists on only speaking to the frea- him.” She jerked her head in Sherlock’s direction. 

“Are you up for another round?” Lestrade asked Sherlock.

“Did you give him the dirtiest cell like I requested?” 

“Oh yeah.” Lestrade grinned. “A group of blokes fresh from a stag party left early this morning. They were pissed out of their minds. We transferred Neil to their cell. It may or may not have been cleaned prior to the swap.” 

Sherlock smiled. “Perfect.” 

*******

John, Vivian, and Lestrade sat in the viewing room and watched as Sherlock settled into a seat across from Neil Henley. 

The man appeared even more disheveled than the last time John had seen him. The stubble on his face had lengthened and now crawled down his neck. He wore a torn and stained orange jumpsuit. 

Sherlock set a box of antibacterial wipes, a disposable razor, and a bottle of shaving cream on the table. 

Neil’s gaze immediately latched onto the items, and his cuffed hands twitched. 

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. “You wished to speak to me?” 

“What are those for?” 

“That, Mr. Henley, depends entirely on you.” 

Neil frowned. “Are you trying to manipulate me?” 

Sherlock smiled. “Trying is for amateurs.” 

The man stared. 

Sherlock sighed. “I’m giving you five minutes of my time. Don’t be boring.” Sherlock made a show of pushing the timer button on his mobile. “Well?” 

Vivian looked away from the window. “Has he got any people skills at all?” 

Lestrade chuckled. “Not that I’ve seen.” 

“While Sherlock's capable of being charming when it serves his purposes, most of the time, he can’t be bothered,” John said. 

Vivian cocked her head to the side. “I suppose I could see where social niceties could be rather inefficient at times.” 

“Oh no. Not you, too,” Lestrade groaned. 

She rolled her eyes. “I’m just making an observation. I don’t plan on being rude to everyone from now on.” 

“Good,” John said. “Because Sherlock is rude enough for the entire population of England.”  

Their attention focused back to the room, as Neil spoke. 

“Is it true?” 

“What? That you’re easily manipulated due to your OCD? Or that your ex-girlfriend lied to you about her identity?” 

“So, it is true,” he whispered. “But why?” 

“For the same reason you lied to me. Sentiment.” 

“I don’t understand.” 

“After three tours in Iraq, Renee’s brother, Adam, committed suicide. She decided to blame members of the MOD for his death. She obtained a new identity, then used you to gain access to their account information.” 

Neil shook his head. 

Sherlock leaned forward. “Your entire relationship was a ruse. She didn’t care about you, Neil. She left you as soon as you were no longer useful to her.” 

The other man swallowed. “But-” 

Sherlock’s words were cold. “She never loved you. But Rebecca Frost did. Stop protecting the woman who killed her.” 

Neil closed his eyes. “I didn’t know what to do.” 

Sherlock remained silent. 

“The password to the company database at my work is changed every twenty-four hours. I always log out when I leave work and bring my laptop home, but five days before Rebecca’s death I forgot to log out. Renee and I had reservations for dinner and I was running late. I remembered while I was showering, and hurried into my home office. I startled Renee, who was sitting at my desk. I logged out of my laptop, then noticed she had my composition book in her hand. I took it from her because I was composing a song for her and I didn't want her to see it yet. I didn't think much of it at the time.

“The day after my music lessons, Rebecca asked me to come over saying I had left my composition notebook there. She confronted me about a data report she’d found inside it. She refused to let me see it. Between the pneumonia and the medications she was on, well, I thought she’d gone mad. I tried to calm her down and asked her to give me a few days to figure things out. She agreed.” 

Neil let out a shaky breath. “When I returned home, I told Stacy, I mean, Renee about it. She acted upset, and I thought it was because she cared about my friendship with my music teacher. Two days later, I heard the news that Rebecca had died.” His cuffed hands clenched. “I couldn’t believe it. Then Renee asked after my notebook. She’d never expressed an interest in it before.” 

“You grew suspicious,” Sherlock said. 

Neil nodded. “After Rebecca's death, I checked my laptop’s activity log at work. It showed that a data report had been accessed and printed to my home printer on the same day that I found Renee at my desk.”

“She put the report into your notebook when you surprised her,” Sherlock said.

The distraught man stared down at the table. “Yes. I came home to confront her, but she was already gone. Everything had been packed up. She left a note breaking things off, saying I smothered her. Not knowing what else to do, I went to  _Aria_  to play piano, and Giles mentioned how you’d discovered Rebecca had died from anesthesia. Renee and I had been to my mum's veterinary office after hours before, since I handle the accounts. She knew the security code. I went to the clinic and found a record of a missing anesthesia bottle. I changed it so that it looked like the disposal service had accidentally took it for recycling.” He closed his eyes. “I was trying to buy myself time, to find her, to talk to her.” 

Neil lifted his head. “I took off work to try and track her down, but she wasn’t answering her mobile and every contact she’d mentioned only lead to dead ends. The next day, I returned home and discovered my laptop had been taken. I raced back to work to access the tracking device on it, but it was already disabled. When I returned, you and Doctor Watson were there.” 

 “So, you decided to falsely confess to us.” 

“Yes.” Neil let out a low laugh. “Even then, I still couldn’t believe she’d done it. I didn’t want to. Stupid, I know. I wanted to help her, keep her safe. I thought there was some other explanation for what happened.” 

Sherlock nodded. “There was. Renee didn’t intend to kill Rebecca Frost. The dosage of anesthesia through the vaporizer was too low to cause death. Under normal circumstances, the sedation would have allowed Renee to disorient Ms. Frost enough to answer her questions about the missing notebook, as well as cause her to forget the entire interrogation. Renee couldn’t anticipate Ms. Frost’s airway would have an inflammatory reaction.” 

Neil’s eyes lit up, and he straightened in his chair. “You mean it was an accident?” 

“Yes, but Renee proceeded to shoot an old man, then abduct a woman and attempt to kill her.” 

The other man deflated. “I’m stupid, aren’t I?” 

Sherlock nodded. “Practically everybody is.” 

Neil eyed the items on the table again, then met Sherlock’s gaze. “I intercepted the medical equipment driver who picked up the anesthesia bottle and vaporizer from  _Aria_. I paid him to hand it over to me. You can find both in the back closet at my mum’s office. I kept it untouched. If there’s any fingerprints on it, they’re well-preserved.” 

Sherlock smiled, then slid the antibacterial wipes, the disposable razor, and the shaving cream bottle across the table. “I appreciate you not boring me, Mr. Henley.” 

*******

They all gathered back inside Lestrade’s office. 

“Sad, isn’t it?” John said. 

“Yes, it’s always a bit of a letdown once a case is solved,” Sherlock said. 

Lestrade shook his head. “That’s not what he meant.”

“I meant that the whole chain of events is sad, all stemming from a young woman’s trauma regarding her brother’s suicide.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, that. Hardly surprising though. Sentiment compels people to do any number of idiotic things.” 

Lestrade sat back in his chair. “Yes, well, I’m just pleased that all the loose ends have tied up neatly.” 

“All except for the laptop,” John said. 

Lestrade shrugged. “Not my division.” 

Vivian stood. “I’m afraid I have to leave, or I’ll miss my flight. I don’t think they’ll be willing to reschedule me a second time in one day.” 

Lestrade waved a hand. “We’ve mostly got everything wrapped up anyhow. Expect a call soon regarding the hearing. We might be needing you to testify.” 

“Alright.” 

Sherlock got to his feet and John followed suit. 

“We’ll escort you out for real this time,” John said. He picked up her bag. 

The walk to the exit and out to the street was uneventful this time around. 

Sherlock turned to Vivian. “Why didn’t you tell us sooner that the voice on the phone was a woman?” 

Oh bloody buggering hell. Of course his friend would fixate on this one particular detail. 

She frowned, red hair fluttering in the breeze. “I did. I told John when I was tied to the bloody chair at  _Brackenwood_. He didn’t tell you?” 

They both turned to stare at him. 

John cleared his throat. “I meant to, but I got distracted and forgot.” Vivian had escaped and tried to commit suicide right after that. It wasn’t really his fault the information had slipped his mind. 

“You forgot.” Sherlock stared up at the sky and sighed. “I could have solved this case ages ago.” 

“But you would have missed all the excitement then,” Vivian said. 

Sherlock’s mouth quirked. “There is that.” 

A cab pulled up. 

John put Vivian’s bag in the boot and gave her a hug, careful not to hurt her bruised body. 

“Thank you for everything,” she whispered. 

“If you ever need a doctor, you know how to reach me.” He gently patted her back and withdrew. 

Sherlock held out a hand. “Well, it hasn’t been boring, Miss Walker.” 

She laughed and shook his hand. “No, it hasn’t.” Something flickered in her green eyes, and all amusement faded from her face, leaving her with a soft and solemn expression. Her chin lifted. “I prefer Vivian.” 

Sherlock blinked, then gave her a curt nod. His lips curved ever so slightly. “Sherlock.” 

Her tense posture relaxed, and a bright smile spread across her face. “See you around, Sherlock.” 

She got into the waiting cab, and they watched the car until it disappeared around a corner. 

John folded his arms. “Well, look who’s made a new friend. I honestly wasn’t sure you were capable of having more than one.” 

Sherlock ignored him and flagged down another cab. 

They slid inside the car. “Baker Street,” Sherlock said.

The cab eased away from the curb and headed down the road. Sherlock pulled out his mobile and tapped away at it. 

“She’s only been gone three minutes,” John said, grinning. 

“What are you on about?” 

He sighed. “I was teasing you about calling Vivian.” Having to explain it really took all the fun out of it.

Sherlock frowned. “Why would I do that? There’s no reason for me to contact her. I don’t even have her mobile number.” 

“I do. And I gave her mine.” Unbeknownst to his friend, he'd also given her Sherlock's. 

“I’m sure Abigail would be delighted to know you're exchanging mobile numbers with other women.” 

There it was again. The tiniest edge to Sherlock’s tone. “I’m sure my girlfriend would be pleased to know how protective you are of my relationship with her. Besides, it's not as if I did anything wrong. What if Vivian needs our help again?” 

“I doubt she’ll ask the two men who tied her to a chair, got her kidnapped, and nearly killed.” 

He shrugged. “Maybe not. If you feel bad, you could always take her to dinner by way of apology.” 

Sherlock stiffened. “I’ve nothing to be sorry for, and I’m certainly not hungry.”  

His friend's sharp tone took him aback. What in the bloody hell happened between him and Vivian at the bathhouse? Whenever John brought the subject up, his friend either walked away or blatantly ignored him. 

“Have you no  _appetite_  at all?” John asked, honestly curious. 

His friend remained silent for two blocks, and John began to wonder if he’d ever get an answer. Perhaps Sherlock thought he was literally asking about ingesting food and figured there was little need to respond.

There finally came a quiet reply. “Such an inclination serves to endanger the well-balanced mind. One need only look at Neil Henley to grasp the consequences of such a distraction.” 

So, Sherlock had understood the question after all, and he’d neatly sidestepped answering it. Bloody frustrating man. 

Fine. “What are you fiddling with your phone for then?”

“I was texting Henry Giles the case details.”

John sputtered. “You couldn’t bother to call him?”

“Tedious. I was far more interested in this.” Sherlock turned the screen so he could see it. 

“Sundrian?” 

“It’s an Old English form of sunder.” Sherlock cast him a sideways glance. “It means to separate, split, or divide.” 

John scowled. “I know what sunder means, but why are you looking it up?” 

“My god, your brain is like Swiss cheese. Don’t you recall Vivian asking who Sundrian was? Didn’t you see Renee’s face before she exploded into violence? It clearly meant something.” 

Oh no. John shook his head. “No more mysteries. Not for a week at least. I need to see Abigail. You can tie up loose ends later.” 

Sherlock pushed the speaker button on his mobile. It rang a few times. “I’m afraid there’s one loose end that really can’t wait.”

“Yeah?” Lestrade’s distracted voice filled the cab. “I thought we were done for the day.”

Sherlock grinned. “We are. You’re not. Your assistance is needed. There’s a body in a freezer that needs relocating."

  
fin  


–        _Sequel to Follow       –_

–         _The Trouble with Sentiment       -_

_\-  Release Date 10/31/15  -_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the final chapter for The Devil's Chord. Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! The second book, The Trouble With Sentiment, will be published here on October 31st. If you enjoyed this novel, please leave a comment and pass my story along to a fellow Sherlock fan. Your feedback means the world to me!


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sequel Released

Hi there!

This is just a message to let you know that the sequel for The Devil's Chord has been posted. It's called The Trouble With Sentiment. I hope you enjoy it!

Happy Reading!

JD Schmidt


	32. The Trouble With Sentiment Posting Update

Greetings fellow Sherlockians!

Good news: I will be posting updated chapters for The Trouble With Sentiment and a new chapter on 12/31. The Not-So-Good News: While the story will technically be finished by the end of the year, there will still be some editing to do. I will endeavor to post a new chapter every week, however, depending on editing needs, it may need to switch to every other week. You've all been lovely, encouraging, and incredibly patient with me. I'll do my best do get you a quality story in a timely fashion.

Are you excited for Sherlock Series 4? God knows I am! What was your reaction to the latest trailer?

Thanks,  
J.D.


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